


Just Screaming In Tune

by Jassy



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Torture, seriously I can't stress how mean I was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 62,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jassy/pseuds/Jassy
Summary: “I’m sorry,” Geralt ground out. His throat was tight, filled with jagged glass down into his chest so that every breath, every beat of his too slow heart shredded him more. “This is my fault.”“Yes,” Jaskier agreed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 126
Kudos: 538





	1. Chapter 1

Geralt clenched his teeth, biting back several oaths as he was shoved into the reeking cell. He allowed himself to cast one narrow-eyed glare of _promise_ to the hired sword responsible for the bulk of the shoving, then turned his attention to the filthy, cramped space – and its occupant. It had been some time since the mountain, since he’d spat angry words at the last person that actually deserved them, lashing out in pain and shame at the one target that remained. He hadn’t seen Jaskier in months and had heard very little of him until recently. When the word had finally reached his ear that some petty little lordling had arrested the Witcher’s Bard – taunting word, deliberately spread so that Geralt would hear of it – he’d headed out at once. He remembered the lord, a minor noble with delusion of grandeur with a holding in the eastern part of Redania, who had attempted to hire him not as a slayer of monsters but as an assassin. He had refused, of course, with a few cutting words to drive the point home. He had meant to tell Jaskier. He really had. But before he had, he’d been pulled into the dragon hunt, and back to _Yennefer_ , and it had slipped his mind.

Unforgivable. Jaskier had had the reputation of being _his_ bard, their names too firmly linked. He hadn’t expected this, simply that Jaskier would get a poor reception within the lord’s domain, and he should have warned him. Now….

The other occupant stirred a little, breath rasping in lungs with a worryingly wet sort of sound. Chains clinked faintly. “ _Geralt_.” The usually smooth voice sounded as wet as his breathing. Raw. “Why the fuck are you here.”

It was less a question, more an accusation. “I heard Lord Pravid had arrested you. I came to get you out.”

Silence greeted his statement for several long moments, before a broken, bitter noise escaped the man huddled against the far wall. Geralt had never heard a sound remotely like it come from Jaskier before, and only rarely from anyone. It was the sound of someone too close to madness, driven there by unbearable loss. It was the sound of someone ready, even eager for death, because they had lost everything that could make them want to stay in the world. “A month ago, a _week_ ago, I might have been glad for that. You’re too late. Ignore your stung pride, Geralt of Rivia. Leave. Leave me alone. You’ll have your blessing soon enough.”

Geralt winced. “I’m not leaving you here, Jaskier. And it has nothing to do with pride.”

“Guilt then. Or an overblown sense of responsibility. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t want to go with you. Get yourself out and forget you ever heard my name. We’ll both be the better for it.”

“You’ll be dead.”

“Like I said.”

Geralt shifted to the side to allow a little more of the torch light shine through the pitifully small opening in the cell door. It was enough for his eyes to make out Jaskier with unfortunate clarity. His friend was covered with nothing but rags and blood, both dry and fresh. A faint smell of char let him know there were burns beneath the filth. He was underweight. His feet looked odd, swollen, and something about the blood covering them told Geralt that he was missing at least a few toenails. He huddled against the wall with his arms curled protectively over his midsection so Geralt couldn’t really assess the condition of his ribs, but he truly doubted that the pain his torturers had inflicted had somehow been withheld from his vulnerable trunk. Geralt could only hope there was no internal bleeding to worry about. The rattle of his breath was worry enough.

With a clenched jaw, Geralt turned his back on the bard to examine the chains binding him hand and foot. They were sturdy, if the occupant were human. Too flimsy for a witcher. And the door, once thick and sturdy, had begun to rot. It would take little effort to kick his way through. He began to twist his hands, coiling the chain that stretched between the two cuffs around itself, increasing the stress on the metal with each twist. The cuffs bit into his wrists and soon drew blood, but that was of little consequence. Soon, he had the chain twisted to its limits, but kept applying pressure. He heard the creek of metal, followed by the splintering as the weakest link finally snapped. Hands freed, he sat to do the same for the chain between his ankle cuffs.

As that chain broke, the faint like through the window was blocked. He looked up to see a guard peering in, trying to make out what was going on in the dimness of the cell. Geralt grinned, a feral look that would appear mostly as flashing teeth to the guard. He stood and started kicking at the door, amused when the guard jumped back in fright. He kept kicking as the brittle wood splintered and split. The guard began shouting and footsteps started running towards them, but it was already too late for whoever was coming. They should have killed him while he was still somewhat hampered, while he was still being reasonably polite in his efforts to locate his friend. Hell, they should have had the sense to _not_ lay hands on an innocent man just because their employer had a grudge against Geralt.

The wood around the hinges gave way and allowed him to shove his way out, twisting the metal of the lock with a screech. He batted the pitted sword thrust towards his belly way, grabbed the owner by the head and twisted it with a satisfying crack. He scooped up the shitty sword and waded into the hired guards pouring into the hallway.

For the moment at least, he left Jaskier safely in the cell. There was no other way to it except through Geralt, and now that he knew where the bard was, none of these fuckers were getting within ten feet of him. Not alive, anyway.

As he moved through the keep, cutting his way through every man that tried to attack him, he could hear the terrified whispers as servants and a few of the mercenaries finally remembered his old nickname, one that he’d hated until now, that Jaskier had replaced. He’d been the Butcher long before he’d been the White Wolf. But Wolf or Butcher, he would kill every man who’d laid a hand on Jaskier. For Jaskier, he would be the Butcher again, and gladly.

He climbed through the Keep, keen ears picking out thundering heartbeats. His nose picked out the scent of Jaskier’s blood on too many, and it enraged him further to realize how many had taken turns hurting the once merry bard. It wasn’t simply a twisted handful – the lord had managed to collect quite a number of sadistic fucks to his service. By the time he found the lord himself, cowering in his privy and reeking in a way that told Geralt he had freshly soiled himself, he was covered in blood and relishing in it.

“A thousand ducats!” the lord begged. “Two thousand! Take all in my treasury! Please, please don’t kill me!”

“But you so wished to pay me to kill a man. If all I am is a killer, why would I not kill you and clear your treasury after?” A fresh trickle of urine darkened the front of the lord’s trousers. Geralt grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out into the light of his bedchamber. The lord sobbed at his feet. “Look at me.” He kicked the man in the side when he wasn’t obeyed. “LOOK AT ME.” The lord finally looked up, tears and snot dripping down his face. “You took an innocent man and tortured him, all because he was my friend. You could not reach me, so you preyed on a defenseless person instead and _bragged about it_. Did it give you pleasure to think you had stolen from me?” He knelt and gripped the man’s chin, smearing blood on his face. “Answer me, or you get a taste of what Jaskier has been receiving.”

“Yes!” he burst out. “Yes, I enjoyed it. I thought I’d won. Please, mercy!”

Geralt put his lips to the man’s ear. “But I’m the Butcher of Blaviken, remember? Just an emotionless mutant, out for nothing more than coin. What makes you think I’m capable of mercy?” He set the edge of the sword low across the man’s paunchy stomach and started to saw. It wasn’t clean or easy, and he had to hold the lord quit firmly by the back of the neck as he writhed and struggled. The sword had been dull to begin with and his fight through the keep had pitted it further. But persistence and brute strength won out and the lord’s intestines spilled out over his legs and the floor.

The man was screaming and trying futilely to shove the back in. A truly skilled healer could _perhaps_ save him still. Geralt wound several lengths of the slippery coils around the sword and yanked, slicing into the thin tubing and spilling more shit out of and onto the lord. **That** damage no healer could fix.

Geralt walked out, leaving the coward to his slow, shit covered death.

A methodical search of the keep turned up his swords and armor, as well as the head guard’s corpse and the keys it held. He returned to the cells and found Jaskier unchanged, still huddling against the wall. The bard only moved when Geralt bent to unlock the manacles, and then only to pull his hands away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

“If I could unlock you without touching you, I would. I do not want to hurt you.”

“That’s a first.”

Geralt closed his eyes for a moment. Jaskier reeked of despair and pain and blood. Geralt’s one relief was that he could not smell the spend of any man on him, so the torturers had at least spared Jaskier _that_. “I will not leave you here to die. I’m sorry.” Grimly, he pulled Jaskier’s hands away from his body as gently as he could and unlocked the manacles. The skin was bloody and scarred, showing just how long they’d been locked around delicate wrists. And there was something wrong with Jaskier’s fingers. He didn’t get a good look as Jaskier clenched his hands into fists, but.

Moving a little faster, he unlocked the manacles from his ankles, then bent to pick him up. There was resistance as he made to stand and he realized there was yet one more binding to undo – around the bard’s neck. Hidden beneath too long, filthy hair was a leather collar, chaining him to the wall like an aggressive dog. Swearing, he set Jaskier down to unfasten it, only then seeing the marks it had hidden. Layer upon layer of bruising wrapped around that long throat, with a few finger marks clear to see. Jaskier huffed that bitter laugh again at whatever he saw on Geralt’s face. “Jealous someone else beat you to it?”

Geralt ran gentle fingertips over the marks. “I wish I could kill them all again.”

“Don’t pretend you did any of that for me, witcher. We both know that’s a fucking lie.”

Geralt went back to ignoring his words and picked him up once more. He was as careful as he possibly could be, but some pain was inevitable. There was simply no place unmarked by bruising, split skin, or burns. Jaskier was most definitely thinner than he should be and had been. He was no trouble at all to carry out, save for the way he leaned away from Geralt as best as his weakened state would let him.

When he reached the main floor, he grabbed the first clean looking cloth he could see – an abandoned cloak carelessly tossed over the stair’s banister – to wrap him in. Once he had the bard covered, he carried him outside and dipped his fingers into the pouch at his waist. Thankfully, those that had stripped him of his gear when he’d been ‘captured’ hadn’t gone through the pouch. Or if they had, they hadn’t a care for the small vials within it, likely only interested in coin. He threw the vial to the ground where it shattered, releasing a tiny puff of purple light.

He waited. In a few moments the air swirled and sparked as a portal opened in front of him. He stepped through to see Triss waiting for him in front of the cottage he and Ciri had holed up in. “Triss, he needs help. Badly.”

“Bring him. I’ve been waiting.” She turned and held open the door for him to maneuver through, then slid in and led him up the stairs. It seemed she truly had been waiting, as Geralt’s bedroom had been converted into a sick room. Geralt gently laid his bundle down on the bed. Jaskier had his eyes squeezed shut, face one giant pained contortion, made all the more painful for the livid burn that swirled from his forehead, down the side of his face, and tapered at his jaw.

Triss unceremoniously shoved him out of the way and stripped the now soiled cloak from his body. In the light, the damage was even worse than he’d thought. There truly wasn’t a single unmarred inch on his body. Triss cut away the few scraps of clothing that still clung and began to bath the blood and filth from his body with herb scented water. She had to stop and refill the large bowl several times before she’d managed to clean him front and back. Then she began treating burns with salve and lacerations with stitches. Twice she had to stop and open wounds to drain out infection. Her blank, professional mask broke when she reached his feet, twisting in an expression of horror. In the light, Geralt could see that not only had several toenails indeed been ripped out, but the layered bruising suggested that the soles had been caned. That would have been excruciating, and the strongest of men would have broken under that kind of pain. Even Triss’ gentle touch as she washed and examined them should have had Jaskier crying out, but though Geralt could hear his heart thundering and smell the sour tang of his increased pain, Jaskier didn’t so much as groan. To Geralt, that spoke of how badly his friend had been hurt – that this wasn’t enough to ring a noise from his throat meant he’d grown used to _so much worse_.

It was on his feet that Triss finally used more direct magic. Her hands glowed as she laid them on his feet, muttering something under her breath that even Geralt couldn’t make out. Jaskier’s feet glowed briefly, with a couple of pinpricks of brighter light on each foot. Oddly, Triss breathed out a relieved noise. “Some fractures, but the bones are aligned. They’ll heal normally, as long as he stays off his feet.” She looked down, mouth twisting. “Not that he’ll want to be on them any time soon.” She mixed a new set of herbs in a clean bowl into a poultice that she smeared on his feet before winding bandages around each to keep the poultice in place. Then she resumed her work on the rest of Jaskier’s body.

She finally cleaned and treated the burn on his face, then began to work down his arms. When she reached his first hand, Jaskier showed the first sign of resistance, clenching his fingers tighter and holding the out of her reach. “Stop touching me.”

“I must treat your injuries,” Triss said. “Some are already infected. Pneumonia has settled into your lungs. Your body cannot handle another infection.”

“I don’t care.”

“I **do**. Let me do my job.” They stared at each other, neither willing to give in. Geralt broke the tableu by the simple expedient of firmly taking Jaskier’s wrists in his hands and holding them down where she could reach. Gently but inexorably, Triss forced his hand to unclench and Geralt sucked in a breath. The fingers were twisted and bent. Each one had been broken, badly, and allowed to heal wrong. They had to have been one of the earliest injuries Jaskier had received, because they weren’t even bruised anymore.

“See? There’s no point. You should have left me there, Geralt. There is nothing – **_nothing_** – left for me in this world.” All at once Jaskier seemed to go limp, as though there had somehow still been fight in his frame until then and he had no more left.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt ground out. His throat was tight, filled with jagged glass down into his chest so that every breath, every beat of his too slow heart shredded him more. “This is my fault.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed.

Triss gave them both sharp looks. “Out, Geralt. Go to the village and fetch clean clothes that will fit him. They must be loose and soft. And we will require chickens, alive, that can lay. Go.”

He nodded once and left to do as she bade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't over, but it's coming slower than the fluff verse fic. I can only handle dishing out angst at this level for so long at a crack. I DO have it mapped out, at least, although it isn't a fun ride.

He had managed to find clothes that would fit Jaskier reasonably well at the tiny general store that was all the village boasted. Nothing near so fine as what Jaskier typically wore, but the cotton was soft, and the fit would be loose enough to not aggravate healing wounds. The chickens were actually a little harder, and in the end he’d had to buy from several different households as no one wanted to give up more than one of their laying birds. With a bag of feed for the noisome things as well, Geralt hurried back to their little house tucked deep into the woods.

Triss wouldn’t let him up to see Jaskier when he got back. “I’ve just got him to sleep, barely, Geralt. Even with a potion he’s barely under. You can’t disturb him. Build a pen for the chickens. Jaskier must have soft, easy food to eat, and eggs are good for that. We can’t have wolves or foxes carrying them off.” The glint in her eye and the steel in her spine told him she wasn’t budging. Defeated, he went back outside and began hunting branches to build a pen for the fucking chickens. He’d never done something like that before, but he had seen plenty of chicken coops. For Jaskier, he would build the most secure pen any chicken had ever seen.

Fortunately for the chickens Yen and Ciri returned. Yennefer liked to take Ciri far from any settlements to practice, and once he’d heard about Jaskier, he’d arranged for her to take the girl for a while so that Triss would be able to focus on the bard, and whatever injuries the bard had wouldn’t alarm the girl. His princess was made of stern stuff, but. He wanted to shield her, where he could.

A futile effort. He hadn’t imagined how badly hurt Jaskier would be. And he’d never imagined that Jaskier would be in a condition where he didn’t want to live. Ciri would see enough, and she would have questions, and when he told her it was his fault, the light in her eyes would dim, at least a little.

But at least the chickens would be safe. Yennefer took in what he was attempting and rolled her eyes. With a few short words, the sticks he’d been using transformed into straight, even planks and assembled themselves into a proper enclosure. A few more words turned part of the firewood pile into a small hut. Geralt nodded his thanks and rounded up the impressively stupid birds to stick inside. Hopefully they’d settle in quickly and start producing eggs.

“How is your little songbird? Get his wings clipped?” Yennefer asked casually.

Geralt immediately scowled. “Don’t, Yen,” he warned, enough true danger in his tone to have Ciri’s eyes widening in alarm.

Yennefer’s gaze sharpened. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

“But…Triss can fix him, right?” Ciri asked. There was a pleading note in her voice, just wanting him to tell her it would be alright.

Geralt looked away. “Most of his injuries can be healed. He’ll have scars, and he’ll walk again. But his hands.” He shrugged. Magic could only do so much. He knew that all to well. And he and Yen both knew that magic had its limits. A Djinn’s wish _might_ be able to fix Jaskier’s fingers, as it was fixing something that was there but twisted. But djinns were fickle, and a wish had to be very carefully worded or it would backfire, as he knew all too well. Even if he could find another, it would likely go wrong. Jaskier could end up with perfectly straight fingers, but still not be able to play.

Ciri looked towards the house. For all she was fierce, with the strength of both her mother and grandmother combined, she was also, even after all she’d been through and lost, still very tenderhearted. She looked sad now, grieving for the injuries of a man she’d never met.

“And what of Pravid?” Yennefer asked.

“Dead.”

“Good. Feed the chickens. I fancy fresh eggs for breakfast.”

“Then go buy some. The eggs are for Jaskier. Triss said he’d need soft foods for a while.”

Yennefer opened her mouth as though to argue, but Ciri nodded with solemn eyes. “Scrambled eggs are good when you’ve been sick. I remember I had fever and they were all I could keep down.”

Like him, Yennefer had a hard time saying no to the girl. “Let’s go see if he’s up to having visitors.”

Jaskier was not up to having visitors, and a stony eyed Triss forbade any of them from going upstairs unless they were ready for sleep. Instead, Geralt pulled out cards and half-heartedly continued teaching gwent to Ciri. Even Yennefer’s normal mocking was subdued.

After about an hour, Geralt’s sharp ears picked up an odd sound from upstairs. Something strangled, like a scream in reverse. He was up the stairs in a shot with Triss not far behind, scolding him since the sound had been too faint for her to hear.

When he threw open the bedroom door, he found Jaskier on the bed, body arched and mouth open, though his eyes were closed. He was putting pressure on his damaged feet, and his twisted fingers were clawing at his throat, but his eyes were closed. A nightmare, then, one which he wasn’t waking from.

Triss shoved by him and tried to soothe him, gentle hands patting at his shoulders and face. But Jaskier just swung out and caught her a blow high up on her cheek. Geralt moved in and caught at his flailing hands. “Jaskier, it’s alright. You’re safe. I’m here, you’re safe,” he said firmly. His voice seemed to calm the bard slightly, so he kept repeating himself, gradually bringing the bard down from his nightmare, though Jaskier still didn’t wake. He shifted his touch from holding to massaging, slowly working his way up each wrist and working the tension out of his arms. Finally Jaskier lay quiet, breathing even.

He glanced at Triss. “I thought you said the potion had him barely under.”

“It did.” With Jaskier calm, she walked over and pressed a hand to his forehead. “He’s fevered. Damn, I was afraid of this. Sit him up, I need him to swallow without choking.” She moved to the table to retrieve another potion. Geralt propped him up against his shoulder and held his head still, mouth open. Triss carefully dribbled the potion between his lips and Geralt massaged his bruised throat until he swallowed. They repeated the process until the potion was gone. “That should help with the fever. He drank a little for me earlier, but we should get more down him while we can. He’s…not cooperative with anything to make him well while he’s awake and aware.”

Geralt continued to hold him and massage his throat while Triss patiently dribbled cool water into his mouth. “Why didn’t he wake up during that nightmare? The pressure on his feet must have been agonizing,” he asked quietly.

“Partly the potion, mostly the fever. He _was_ sort of awake. Delirious. Whatever memory held him, he must have kept his eyes closed for. His body was reliving something he went through.”

Geralt nodded. “I think I killed that fucker too slow.”

“Oh?”

“I disemboweled him, and shredded his intestines until he was covered in his own shit,” he said flatly.

Triss merely nodded, her usual unflappable self. “Slow and agonizing. He might not even be dead quite yet, though it would take a miracle to save him.”

“I’ll ask Yennefer if she minds checking. Jaskier deserves to know his torturer is dead.”

“He will not recover quickly from this, you know. His physical injuries will heal, for the most part. There’s nothing I can do for his fingers or throat, but his mental injuries –“

“What about his throat? Isn’t it just – bruising?”

“The bruising is bad. But his vocal cords have been…shredded. If someone screams hard enough, for long enough….” She trailed off. “Well. Between that and the repeated choking, there is permanent scarring. He would have to go through something like what the Brotherhood does when we ascend, and without a connection to magic, he would not survive the procedure.”

Guilt throbbed afresh in his gut. Jaskier was permanently scarred, physically maimed, because of Geralt. He would be stared at wherever he went because of the scarring to his face, he wouldn’t be able to play with his fingers so bent, and he’d lost his voice on top of all of that. Jaskier truly was a talented musician. One of the best players Geralt had ever heard, and a voice with few equals. And his _passion_ for his music was unparalleled. To have all that still inside him and not be able to let it out would be a special kind of hell. Oh, he could still compose. No doubt he would. But his own hands and voice would never again be able to bring his creations to life.

“Why did you say this was your fault?”

Geralt couldn’t meet her eyes. “Because it is. Pravid had a grudge against _me_. I – insulted him. I know how closely my name is linked with Jaskier’s. The world knows him as _my_ bard, and I didn’t tell him. I meant to warn him and I – didn’t. I got distracted by – other things. And when those other things went to shit, I blamed him for it, for everything that didn’t go my way, and left him on his own. He didn’t deserve my anger, and I should never have let him wander without warning him of my enemies. He was there for me so often when I needed someone, he’s done so much for me, and for my brothers, and I treated him like shit.” Self-loathing closed his throat.

Triss calmly blotted some water that had trickled down Jaskier’s chin. “You aren’t responsible for Pravid’s actions. He made the choice, as did the men he employed.”

“But I know men like that. Petty, cowardly, backbiting fucks. I know how they are when they can’t get at the ones they really want. I know how they target the ones they _can_ reach when their true target is lost to them. I knew Jaskier could be in danger if he went within reach of Pravid.”

“I’m not saying you bear no guilt, Geralt. You should not have said the things you did to him, and yes, you probably should have remembered to warn him to avoid that part of Redania. But you did not whip him, or burn him, or cane his feet. You did not break his fingers and make them heal wrongly, and you did not choke him and make him scream until his voice was broken. You did not do those things, and you would not ever do those things.”

Geralt just shook his head. It didn’t matter that his was not the hand to deal out the injuries. He had been wandering around, trying to avoid his destiny so hard that he pushed away a truly good man. Jaskier didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. He had looked at Geralt so long ago without an ounce of fear, without the sick fascination of those who viewed him as a freak. He had looked at Geralt and seen a heroic man – a _man_ , and never treated him as a weapon to be used or a monster to be shunned. He had persisted in that view for so many years, always so happy to travel with him, to have an adventure and finish off at the tavern with piss poor ale and much better music. And Geralt had never even given him the simple curtesy of calling him ‘friend’ in return. He had denied that feeling, that blatant truth, and taken everything that Jaskier had offered him and given nothing of himself in return. He had mocked. He had insulted. He had gone out of his way to embarrass him.

They finished getting the water down Jaskier’s throat and Triss shoo’d him out of the room so she could check his bandages and stitches. Ciri looked anxiously at him when he returned to the main room. “Is he alright?”

“A nightmare. It’s passed now, and Triss was able to get him to drink some water. She’s checking his stitches. But pneumonia has settled in his lungs, so he will be very sick for a while on top of the injuries.” Her face fell. “Jaskier is strong,” he said, a little awkwardly. “He will get through this.”

“We’ll _help_ him get through this. He needs broth! I’m certain I remember the healer ordering broth for those that were _really_ ill,” she suggested in a manner that said it wasn’t a suggestion.

Yennefer smiled slightly, tucking a lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “That is a fine idea. But we’ll need a new chicken. Geralt worked so hard on the coop for the ones in the yard.”

Ciri stood up expectantly. “Let’s go.”

Yennefer’s smile widened. “Hold the fort, Geralt. We’re off to find a stock chicken.”

Geralt watched them go. He was so grateful to Yennefer. For all that she had a genuine reason to hold a grudge against him for binding their lives together without her knowledge or consent, she had stepped up to help him with Ciri. He didn’t know much about families, and what he did know revolved around families breaking apart (abandonment, death, sacrificing children to some monster to save others). But he thought she was being a pretty fair mother to Ciri. Certainly his Child had willingly, even eagerly, welcomed Yennefer into their group of two and had begun to smile more often with the woman than Geralt had managed to get from her alone.

His thoughts went back to the man lying in his bed upstairs, broken beyond measure. He couldn’t even begin to imagine a way to make things right with him. Perhaps, if he had gotten to Jaskier right when he’d been taken, before his voice was broken, before his fingers healed all wrong, Jaskier might have forgiven him. Better, of course, if he had managed to keep his head out of Yennefer’s attractive backside and _tell_ his friend what he’d needed to know, and far better if he had never spouted those hateful, ugly words. But he knew of no magics that could alter time, not even a djinn. There was no one left to kill, either, not that he thought Jaskier would care about that. His remorse meant nothing to the man.

Part of him wanted to leave, which only shamed him more. But it was there. He didn’t want to face Jaskier when he woke, even as most of him wanted to be glued to the man’s side, if only to make sure that not even a chilled breeze could cause him the slightest discomfort ever again. To see that dead, hollow look in once cheerful, bright eyes was more than he thought he could bear. As bad would be when she finally heard the whole story and came to understand what a bastard he had been to his best, maybe his only, real friend. She thought him a hero right now, the way Jaskier once had. It would be excruciating when he lost that.

“Geralt, I need water in the bath,” Triss said, startling him. He turned to see her grave expression. “His fever is not falling. Get cool water in the tub, quickly. We have to bring his temperature down before seizures begin.”

He seized on the task with a greater measure of eagerness than it perhaps deserved, but right then, any small thing he could do to help Jaskier was of monumental importance. He hurried to the well and began to draw bucket after bucket as quickly as they would fill to pour into the wooden tub kept at the back of the house. Better if it could be heated, but he knew that as unpleasant as the chilled water would be for his friend, they had to beat his fever.

Even if the bard wished otherwise.

When the tub was filled enough to fully cover the bard, he went up to his bedroom. Triss was stroking a cool, wet cloth over him, forehead and neck, down his chest, and Jaskier was protesting even that, flinching and trying to shove the cloth away with fever-weakened hands. As soon as he entered, Triss set the cloth aside and moved to remove the bandages from his feet and other injuries. When she was done, Geralt picked him up and carried him down to the bath.

He didn’t drop him in, of course, but the way Jaskier bowed and screamed when he was lowered in, one would think he had. Setting his jaw, Geralt caught at flailing hands and held them in one of his, while his other arm went around Jaskier’s shoulders to keep his trunk in the water. Triss did her best to hold his feet by the ankles to keep him from smacking them into the tub and hurting himself, and potentially aggravating the breaks.

“It’s alright, Jaskier, please calm down. It’s just a bath, it’s just water,” he tried. Jaskier was too out of it to hear him and just kept screaming, occasionally words begging for it to stop, but mostly just wordless screams of anguish. Geralt almost found himself cursing the years of vocal training that gave Jaskier such impressive lung capacity – almost. The wetness in his lungs was already worrying, and Geralt was too spooked about wishes where his bard was concerned to truly wish otherwise. But he so wanted the anguished sound to stop, for Jaskier to be comfortable, at least.

Gradually, however, the treatment worked. The fever-bright flush to his skin began to fade, and the howling died down. The struggles to be free became intermittent, and Triss dared to release his legs in order to feel his head. “It’s down,” she announced relieved.

Jaskier opened confused eyes. They took a few seconds to focus, and when they did, the confusion only increased. “My smell was that offensive?”

“Not at all, Jaskier,” Triss soothed. “You had a dangerously high fever. The risk of brain damage was too high, we had to bring your temperature down quickly. How do you feel?”

“Tired.” He tugged at his hands and Geralt reluctantly released them and knelt back, giving the man a little space. His gaze turned to the water. Geralt didn’t know the look in his eyes then, but he didn’t like it. “They started to play with water,” that ruined voice said. “Put a cloth over my face and poured water over me until I thought I might drown. They wouldn’t quite let me though.” A curious little smile flitted across his face, making the burn twist oddly. Then he sank beneath the surface and Geralt could _see_ the water rush into his mouth as he deliberately inhaled. He yanked the other man up as Triss darted behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest and jerked, hard, just under his sternum. Between that and the body’s automatic survival instinct to cough and clear the lungs, they got Jaskier coughing out the water he’d inhaled, along with a hefty dose of mucus.

“What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?” he roared.

“Trying to choose something for myself,” Jaskier rasped back.

“That’s no choice! That’s just giving up! You have never given up on anything, you stubborn little shit. Why now?”

“The only thing that makes life worth living is love, Geralt. All my loves are _gone_. I have **nothing**. Why do you imagine I would want to be condemned to this – this _farce_ of an existence? Scarred and broken and _empty_? You did nothing good, nothing _heroic_ when you pulled me out of there,” he spat. “All you have done is condemned me to an existence of pain. Go pat yourself on the back somewhere else, you vicious, miserable **fuck**. Go be self-righteous at someone else. I’ve had more than my fair fill of you!”

Geralt set his lips and ignored his words. Instead he reached for the bard and lifted his struggling, weakened body from the water so that Triss could wrap a rough towel around it, then carried him back up to the bed.

He did leave then, with Triss to watch over him. When he returned to the lower floor, he found Yennefer and Ciri waiting, and the looks on their faces told him they’d heard at least the end of the bath. Wordless, he went around them and escaped outside.

He sat on a tree stump near the damned chicken coop and tried to quiet his mind, but for all his discipline, he could not fall into meditation. He couldn’t get Jaskier’s ruined voice spitting hate-filled words at him. Twenty years ago, the words wouldn’t have surprised him. What had surprised him then was meeting the man over and over on the road and being greeted _happily_. Joyfully. Even when he’d been covered in blood and viscera, when his skin was parchment white except where his eyes and veins showed black due to the potions, Jaskier was never anything other than eager. Chirping and chattering, excited to learn something new, to share new songs and gossip, an ale in a tavern.

He started a bit when soft footsteps approached him and turned to see Ciri. Her eyes were wide and questioning, hesitant. He held an arm out, beckoning, and let her take his hand and sit by his feet. “You have questions.”

“What – happened? I know men hurt him,” she added quickly. “But why is he so angry with _you_?”

“Because it was my fault. We were – friends. But I wasn’t a very good one to him. You’ve heard the stories about witchers. That we don’t feel, that all we want is to kill monsters and take coin.” She nodded. “Not true, of course, but for a very, very long time, people believed it. There was never a point in trying to change minds. Witchers don’t get involved in human affairs.” He managed a smile at her skeptical look. “We’re not supposed to, anyway. We go where the work is, we don’t meddle in politics. We don’t take sides. We take contracts and leave humans to sort themselves out. That always just reinforced the belief. It’s easy to get used to being apart. Separate. No one wanted us to stay when the contract was done, no attachments. Sometimes, someone would pretend otherwise. Pretend to like us, even love us, but it was always to get something. Usually, what they wanted was for us to kill someone or something for them for free.” He shrugged. “Jaskier was different. But it took me a very, very long time to understand that. And then I did something – cruel.” He swallowed. “I had met Yennefer – while saving his life, actually. And there was a djinn. She was doing something very dangerous, that would have killed her, so I made a wish that made it impossible for the djinn to kill her. It bound our destinies together, but she didn’t have a choice in it. When she found out, she rightly left me. It hurt, and I was angry, and I lashed out, but he was the only one there, so I lashed out at him. I said something terrible, and I know I hurt him. I wanted to. I wanted to drive him away, and I succeeded. And I had already pissed off Pravid, but I forgot to warn him to avoid the area. With the way he wanders, it was almost inevitable that he’d wander there eventually. He was caught by a very petty, very wicked man who wanted to hurt _me_ because I was too stubborn and stupid to just say I was sorry. To him or Yennefer.”

“Couldn’t you apologize? Tell him how you feel?”

“Would he want to hear it? Or would he think I did it for my own sake? He is – a truly gifted musician. I have heard countless over my lifetime, and he really is one of the best. He could have named his price in any court in the land that he cared to stay at, he could have had a cushy teaching position at Oxenfurt and shaped the minds and talents coming out of there. But he chose to follow me on the road, with poor food, inconsistent housing and bathing, the exhaustion that comes from walking miles a day for days on end in all weather – just to be there. With me. All that, and I never once had the courage to simply say he was my friend, and then I turned around and treated him as my personal practice dummy. And then this.” He waved a hand at the house. He didn’t mean the house itself, of course. But the grievous harm Jaskier had suffered, the loss of his greatest passion and love, the only thing besides Geralt himself that Jaskier had never strayed from. “I don’t expect he would forgive me. What I did **is** unforgivable. But I don’t think he’d even want the apology he so truly deserves, however truly I mean it.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. All I can do is hope that, as Triss heals his body, his spirit will heal too. Enough that he no longer wishes death, that he can find something, _anything_ , to want to live for. Until then, I will protect him as best I can, even from himself.”

“What if – what if he never heals enough for that?”

Geralt could only give her a troubled look and admit, “I don’t know, Ciri. I truly don’t know.”

She nodded and leaned against him, filling him for at least a moment with a tremendous gratitude. This small, fierce girl, who had lost so much had a heart as great as Jaskier’s. He would protect both of them with every fiber of his being.

Over the next days, Geralt wasn’t permitted to see Jaskier again. Ciri bulled her way upstairs and would sit with the bard for hours, but try as he might, he never heard the bard respond to her stories and questions. It didn’t seem to deter the girl in the slightest. Triss remained with him almost constantly, only trading with Yennefer for a few hours a night to sleep. Her reports told him the bard was healing, slowly but surely, and that the fluid in his lungs was clearing in spite of his attempt to drown himself. She had removed all herbs and potions from the room, and at Yennerfer’s insistence, they had cleared everything sharp from the room as well.

Eventually, he healed past the point of needing new salves and potions applied, and simply had to continue to rest and eat. Ciri’s training, too, was past the point where they could continue to do it there. She needed a proper teacher to learn weapons and tactics, along with continued instruction from Yennefer for her powers. The plan had always been to go to Kaer Morhen, where Vesemir was waiting to instruct her. Geralt was a good teacher and a better witcher, but the older man was the best teacher he knew. So he let Yennefer take the location from his mind to portal them there with a letter in hand from him for Vesemir.

But then, to his shock, Triss also had to leave. “He requires only time now, Geralt. Time, and his friend.” She finished packing her supplies in her satchel and gave him a solemn look. “I can do nothing to heal his heart. But if anyone can, it’s you.”

“I’m the one that _damaged_ it, Triss.”

“And that is why you must be the one to heal it. Geralt, from what I have seen, much of what is wrong between you comes from a lack of honesty. Not that you precisely lied to him,” she explained when he would have protested. “But from keeping secrets. Your friendship was very one sided, though I believe the feelings were not. Stop hiding what you think and feel from him. Don’t make him guess. I promise you, right now, he will guess wrong and find the worst possible motivation on your part for every word you say and every action you take. If you want him to heal – open up. I know slaying some monster would be easier for you, but that will do you no good here.” With that, she picked up her bag and waved a portal into view and stepped through.

And Geralt was alone in the house with Jaskier. Who still wasn’t allowed to walk for another three weeks. Who still barely ate. Who still hated him and life itself. Somehow he was supposed to fix that. He looked at the stairs. Stairs had never seemed so daunting before. But so be it.

He set about making a simple lunch, as he’d seen Triss prepare, with scrambled eggs, bread, and cheese, then climbed the stairs. The bedroom was bare of anything save the bed, a small table, and a single chair. No glass basin or clay pitcher for water, nothing ornamental. Ciri had insisted on a vase for flowers, but that had been removed too, lest Jaskier break it and use the shards to cut himself. He wasn’t ever left alone to eat, and in fact, wasn’t left alone for more than a few moments at a time, ever.

“It’s time to eat,” he announced a little awkwardly.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Your stomach disagrees. I can hear it from here.”

“My stomach can get fucked – and so can you.” Jaskier finally turned his head away from the small window, turning flat, dead eyes on him. “I see you’ve been stuck with me. How dreadful that must be for you, the great witcher, forced to play nursemaid for a troublesome ex-bard. How the mighty have fallen.”

“I don’t think of it as me being stuck with you. I can think of little I would not willingly do for you – bringing you food is no trouble at all. But I think you’re rather stuck with me. Triss had to return to her post.”

“Pretty words, Butcher. Who taught them to you? You needn’t use them – your waif and your witch are not here to hear it.”

Geralt flinched, inside. Jaskier had never used that hated moniker before. “Then you should realize I have no reason to lie, do I?” He pushed the table up next to the bed to set the tray on, then sat in the chair himself.

Jaskier made a frustrated noise in his ground glass voice. “Why are you doing this to me? Have I not suffered enough yet? I am **trying** to give you what you wanted! I stayed away, I traveled where you were not, I didn’t even _sing_ about you, you fuck. I did all that I could to give you your blessing, and I have suffered the loss of all that I had. Have I not paid enough for my sins?”

Geralt swallowed down the lump in his throat. “You have committed no sins, Jaskier. You have only ever been my friend, though I was such a poor one to you in return. You did not deserve what I said to you on that mountain. I was angry and ashamed and I took it out on you, though you had not earned any of it. You suffered for my sins, not yours. I would not see you suffer further. Please, eat.”

“Every moment I still live is suffering. I don’t want to eat – I want an end.”

“It may seem hopeless now, but I swear, I will do all that I can to make you well again.”

“You can’t. Triss knows of no magic that can restore what is lost to me,” Jaskier said bluntly. “All my loves are out of reach.”

“Then I will find you new things to love.” He picked up the fork and brought a bite of eggs to the bard’s mouth. Jaskier stared at him defiantly, but he would not yield. Jaskier gave in first, as he always did, and it wasn’t a good feeling. But it got the bite of eggs into his mouth and down his throat, followed by the next and the next, until the whole meal had been eaten and Jaskier was looking a little sick around the edges. He pushed the tray away and then just sat and waited. Jaskier stared at him for a while, eyes blank and vague. Eventually he just turned his gaze out the window and seemed perfectly fine with them sitting there, not saying anything. Once, there hadn’t been a silence that Jaskier wasn’t eager to fill. But it was getting more and more clear that the Jaskier of ‘once’ was gone.

Geralt could only pray to the gods that he wasn’t even sure he believed in that it wasn’t for good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't, uh, this isn't any better than the last two chapters. Sorry?

Every single meal was a challenge. Jaskier made him work for every bite. The insults stopped, but it was in favor of absolute silence accompanied by that dead-eyed stare. At breakfast on his third day of being his sole caretaker, Geralt was shocked when Jaskier immediately opened his mouth to be fed, and ate quickly, _eagerly_ , gulping his food down like he couldn’t get enough. Geralt, foolishly, fed him as quickly as he seemed to want. Then a very strange smile crossed Jaskier’s face, he leaned forward, and vomited it all right onto Geralt’s lap. Jaskier coughed and spit to clear the last of the bile and half chewed food from his mouth.

“Oops. Will you make me eat it again?” he asked, almost winsomely. “ _They_ did. They force fed me rotten meat and then force fed me my own vomit when I couldn’t keep it down. I will always have that memory. Because of you. Because you can’t just give us what we both want and _let me go_.”

Geralt stared at the mess covering his legs and boots, jaw clenched. “If I could take that memory, if I could take all of them, I would. I would gladly take them. You deserve so much better. All you ever wanted was to make people smile, give enjoyment. I know I shit on that for a long time, acted like it was worthless, that your music wasn’t brilliant. I know you find it impossible to credit what I am saying now, and that’s my fault. All of it is my fault. I _will_ get you through this. I know you can heal, that there is still joy in the world for you, that you will find something to love again. I have never met a creature so well suited to love in my life as you. So you can throw up on me. Piss on me, hit me, spit on me. I deserve it. But please do not think it will ever make me let you go. Geralt of Rivia is good for nothing but killing. Jaskier the bard is good at making people happy. He has a smile like a sunrise after a storm and a laugh like birdsong.”

The plate was slapped out of his hands. “Fuck you, you piece of shit,” Jaskier snarled. “I am no bard! Not anymore! Why can’t you get that through your thick, fucking skull? Go tell a man with no legs he will run races again!”

Wordless, Geralt stood up and went to collect the shards of the plate, keen eyes picking out every single one. When he returned with a bucket of water and a rag to clean the floor, Jaskier had curled on his side with his back to the room and didn’t turn around to watch.

He was more careful after that to feed Jaskier slowly.

On the fifth day, he removed the breakfast dishes and then returned to Jaskier’s room. He didn’t expect Jaskier to turn around and was not disappointed when he was proved right. “A few years ago, we were in Lyria. Do you remember? We were heading south, towards the Black Forest. There were rumors of a wraith haunting the edges, and people were frightened. No one had died, but the coin was decent and worth the trip. We stopped for the night to make camp at the edge of the Yaruga. It was summer, and hot, and we were dusty and sweaty from traveling all day. You stripped right down and dove in, absolutely fearless. You came up out of the water and just shouted, not out of pain or fear or anything, but just because you were happy. Happy to be stopping for the night, happy you got to go swimming. When I swam in to get clean, you splashed me. Even after traveling with you so often over the years, I couldn’t believe you did that. I didn’t get it. But you were laughing, and you weren’t mocking me, you were just…happy. I didn’t understand that. Why you were happy. There was nothing…special, happening.”

Jaskier huffed. “It’s not that hard to figure out you fuckwit. I was a simpleminded, delusional idiot who thought I was camping in a lovely spot with my friend.” He still didn’t turn around with his answer.

“I was happy too, you know. Because you were.”

“Bullshit. You threw mud in my face – literally, and stomped out to go kill something. I just wanted to play.”

“I didn’t know that. I haven’t played…anything, except cards I guess, since before Kaer Morhen. Witcher training does not leave room for games.”

“Whatever.”

The next day Geralt again returned after breakfast and sat staring at Jaskier’s back. “Do you remember that arrogant little mayor in Redania? The one with the ridiculous mustache? He was so condescending, and tried to skimp on paying on the contract. You insulted him until he was red in the face and couldn’t even speak, and then you made up that song, right there on the spot. By the third chorus, everyone was singing it, about his grand love affair with the pig who thought he was too ugly to stay with and threw itself at the butcher to escape his attentions. And then he tripped over his own feet trying to leave, and everyone started making pig sounds and running away like he meant to ravish them.” A faint smile crossed his face. “I couldn’t let myself laugh because I feared I wouldn’t be able to stop. No one ever defended me, Jaskier. Not until you. You were always so angry at the way people treated me, and quick to put them in their place for it.”

“And you laughed along when people mocked me, or just went right out and told people I’d been kicked in the balls as a child and couldn’t perform sexually. I was the laughing stock at the court after that.”

Geralt looked at his feet. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let myself…trust it. Your friendship. And I let it make me cruel. I was wrong to act that way.”

Geralt returned the next day too. And the day after that. Each day he returned and shared a memory as it lived in his mind. Some few, Jaskier didn’t have some shitty thing Geralt had done that made the memory sour for him, but for too many, he did. Sometimes, it was something that Geralt had said that ruined it. Sometimes, it was him saying nothing at all that did. There were precious few memories that hadn’t left a bad taste in Jaskier’s mouth, and that was a pain he didn’t know how to deal with. It had taken him too long to realize how much he valued, _treasured_ , all those times spent with the other man. Jaskier had put up with so much from him, so many insults, so many mornings waking to find that Geralt had left him behind, and he had still greeted him on their next meeting with a joyful smile and eager friendship. It gutted him every time he shared something that was genuinely precious to him, that _could_ have been precious to his friend too, if only he had been just…decent. If he had held his tongue, or given him just basic courtesy. A smile or a nod. If he had once clapped over a well performed song. There would never be apology enough in the world to make up for any of it.

After more than a week and a half of sharing memories, Geralt despaired. He wasn’t good enough for this. He had done too much damage, he didn’t know the words to say that could ease even a fraction of the other man’s pain. But Jaskier had no one else, either. He had filled his life with, well, _Geralt_ , and the people he spoke of were fleeting, transient, because Jaskier had always left them behind to travel with him and never stayed long enough to nurture those connections.

He sat on the floor outside Jaskier’s room, back against the wall. He hadn’t slept since the others had left, but the snatches of meditation he managed to achieve was still sufficient to keep him going. He had managed to make Jaskier cry – he had smelled the salt-scent of tears on the other man, though Jaskier kept his back to him as always, and he’d been spared the sight of it.

He kept racking his brains for memories, because surely he hadn’t been so consistently awful? There had to be more than a handful of times he hadn’t shit all over his friend? Had he not once complimented a song? Told Jaskier he’d done well at something? Laughed at a fucking joke? But he couldn’t think of anything, not one time he hadn’t said or done something. It didn’t matter that many times, he had simply been teasing. When you _never_ balanced out teasing with sincerity, it wasn’t teasing anymore – it was bullying. And Geralt had never been good at sincerity, having had it thrown back in his face the few times he’d tried, so he’d just. Stopped trying.

The faint sound of glass breaking caught just at the edge of his attention. For a few seconds, he tried to place where it had come from. Perhaps a breeze had come through an open window and knocked something over. Then he realized the sound had come from _inside Jaskier’s room_.

He shot to his feet and yanked open the door, only to have his nose assaulted by the smell of blood and tears. Jaskier was hunched over on the bed, placed so stupidly right under the now broken window. Geralt leaped across the room and yanked the shard of glass from blood-slick fingers. “No! Jaskier, fuck, what did you do?” Frantic, he shoved the blood-wet sleeve of Jaskier’s right arm up to find a gash across his wrist – horizontal, thank fuck, not vertical. He checked his other arm and found no similar would to deal with. He wrapped his hand around that fragile wrist and lifted it above Jaskier’s head as he squeezed, putting as much pressure on the wound as he dared. He needed salve, and bandages, but those were all downstairs. There was no help for it. With a grunt, he got his free arm around Jaskier, just under his butt, and lifted. Jaskier struggled, but his grip was like iron, and Jaskier was still too weak, ate too little really to be otherwise no matter how Geralt stared and coaxed, to be effective. He got the man downstairs and sat on the floor with him beside his pack so he could dig out the supplies he needed. The salve was made strong enough for a witcher’s injuries, but wouldn’t be toxic for a human. It stopped the bleeding as soon as he smeared a thin line of it over the gash, and he was able to wrap it thick with bandages to protect what would be tissue thin skin for a few days until Jaskier’s natural healing strengthened. Then he just wrapped both arms around him and held on as Jaskier cried.

“Please, please, just let me go, I can’t do this anymore, Geralt. Please, there’s nothing, I have nothing, I can’t – you keep saying you care, but if you do, why won’t you let me go? I can’t – I can’t bear this anymore.”

“It will get better, I swear it will. You just – just have to hang on, you will heal, and we will go back on the road again. You can come on hunts with me,” he pleaded. “And we will look for something, _anything_ , to get your hands back. I know we can find something, some way to make you happy again, I won’t stop until we do. Please, Jaskier.”

“You don’t understand, I have nothing! No one has ever wanted me for _anything_ except a fuck or a song, and I can’t – I can’t give anyone either anymore! I’m not good even for whoring now. Do you get it? I had those _two things_ to offer the world, and they’re _gone_. I will be a beggar in the streets, that’s all that’s in my future. Is that what you want? Will that make you happy, finally, to see what’s left of me covered in shit and grime, begging for scraps from people more likely to kick me than toss me a coin?” he hiccupped.

“Gods, Jaskier, **no**. You will never end up like that, I swear it. I won’t let you.” Geralt let his head rest against Jaskier’s, his own tears finally spilling over. “You are my friend. You deserve better, I know, you deserve everything good, and the gods know I’m not good, nothing like it. But I can promise you I will always be there. I won’t leave you again, and you will never have to beg for anything. I’ll make sure of it, l will. You’ll be safe, I’ll keep you safe. Just please, gods, please Jaskier. Just give me a chance, give yourself a chance.”

Jaskier stared at him with wide, watery eyes. “The White Wolf, crying over a broken, useless bard,” he muttered. He reached up to run a crooked finger through the tear tracks streaked down Geralt’s face. “I didn’t even think your eyes _could_ cry.”

“Neither did I. Please, Jaskier. Please stay. Please give me a chance, just one more, to find a way to make you happy again.”

Jaskier just sagged against him. “It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice. There was a time,” he said, voice distant and far away, “where I would have said I’d give my hands to have you hold me like I mattered to you. I never thought the universe would take me so literally.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so another part, this time from Jaskier's POV, and i might need a wee break from this to go back and play in the fluff verse, because this is so depressing to write. I tried to edit it, but if you see any mistakes, please let me know!

Jaskier had a new prison. It was nicer than the old one. He had clothes that were intact, no chains attached to him, and he was fed real food that wasn’t moldy or rotten. He had clean water to drink, and his chamber pot was emptied as soon as he’d used it so he didn’t have to live in his own filth and stink. No one was beating him, whipping him, strangling or drowning him, he hadn’t been burned with hot irons in _weeks_. But it was still a prison. He just wanted to leave – everything. He could stare out at the sunshine, the trees and grass and wild animals. But it was all just a prison when all he wanted was an end, because the world had gone gray and lifeless for him. Music was dead for him. His body was marred, ugly to look at, and would no longer make anyone smile, nor eyes darken with desire. Whatever new music might have been still within his mind and soul had died.

And it was Geralt. Geralt, who he’d loved since he’d been a stupid, naïve eighteen year old boy, filled with hope and wonder and excitement, who was keeping him imprisoned inside his tortured flesh. The witcher kept insisting there was life left to be lived. The he would find a new love. Who swore to never stop looking for a way to fix his hands, his voice, when it was patently impossible. Geralt offered him the cruelest torture yet – this mockery of affection, that seemed the culmination of decades of hopes and fantasies and beautiful dreams, when all it was really doing was twisting the knife in deeper.

And gods, did Jaskier wish it were real. He’d wanted so badly to be called _anything_ good by the witcher – friend, companion, lover, he’d have soaked up any of those words and been grateful for it. But this, now, was agony. Geralt was a good man – possibly the best Jaskier had ever met. And the guilt he felt over what had been done to Jaskier was driving him to say and do things he never would have wanted to do or say. Claim feelings that had never been there before. Begging hadn’t worked. Attacking him hadn’t worked. Pointing out every single instance where he’d shown his true feelings over the years hadn’t worked. Fuck, he’d even failed at taking his own life! The drowning attempt had been stupid, he knew that, with both Geralt and Triss literally right there. But he’d been so sure that he could break the glass quietly enough that Geralt, asleep somewhere in the house, would not be able to hear. But he’d clearly been so fucking wrong, and now Geralt had taken all the doors down off the hinges, removed the last of the glass from his window and just closed the shutters when the sun went down or it stormed. He wouldn’t fit through the tiny window, even if the fall were actually far enough to kill him, which it wasn’t.

He stopped talking entirely. Geralt had proven there was no point. He was relentless. He came everyday and fed him like a child – to be fair, Jaskier would not have lifted a fork by himself, and did so when Geralt fed him to get the man to move back a few feet at least. Geralt spent every moment he wasn’t cooking or cleaning up sitting in Jaskier’s room, talking to him. Objectively, it was interesting just how clearly Geralt could remember things from twenty years ago, when even Jaskier’s most cherished memories had gone a little fuzzy around the edges.

Subjectively, it was agony – acid on nerve endings that could not die. He relived every single memory as Geralt brought them up, and wanted so much to believe that the feelings Geralt claimed he’d at the time were true. But Jaskier’s own memories told a different story. One that had dismissive grunts, rolled eyes, impatient hands. They showed Jaskier throwing himself over and over at someone who could not have been clearer he was uninterested. He’d been a burden, a nuisance, an outright bane to the man’s existence, and he had _never taken hints the size of mountains_.

His only hope, such as it was, was that if he stopped talking. If he remained as passive and closed off as possible, Geralt might finally do the sensible thing and drop him off with the Sisters of Melitele or some other religious order that took in people not in their right minds. That would be better. That would be a relief for both of them. The Sisters would pay less attention, their senses were ordinary human senses, and he doubted it would be difficult to find a way to end his suffering for good.

He wasn’t actually certain how many days they spent like that, with him silently staring out at nothing, and Geralt coming and going and talking incessantly. He knew there was at least one instance where Geralt had put him forcibly to sleep with _axii_. When he was next awake, the food had been changed up to include fruits and vegetables, so he guessed that Geralt hadn’t trusted him not to hurt himself while he went to market.

To be completely fair, he absolutely would have.

He had almost expected that when his feet were fully healed that they would move on from the secluded little house. But for all that Jaskier had lost track of time, it had been long enough for his feet to be healed and he could walk again. He didn’t – he stayed on his little bed beneath the window except when he had to use the chamber pot or Geralt was making him wash – but he could. Jaskier supposed it counted as improvement. Except for his fingers, which always ached to a greater or lesser extent depending on humidity, his body was finally pain free. All his bruises had faded, the cuts, the lash marks, and the burns had all healed over into pink, shiny scar tissue. There was no mirror in the room, not even a shiny bit of metal, so he could only guess that the scar on his face looked the same – perhaps sort of pretty, in its way, where it curled down from his forehead, around his eye, and ended on his cheek pointed at his mouth. The skin was rather raised, but cosmetics could probably hide it well enough – but what would be the point? There were not enough cosmetics in the world to his the scars that dotted his body.

They weren’t even well earned scars, like Geralt’s. Every one of _his_ scars had been earned killing monsters, saving lives. There was nothing noble about Jaskier’s. His scars hadn’t saved so much as a mangy puppy.

There was no telling how long they would have continued on like that, Geralt doggedly trying to convince Jaskier there was worth to living, Jaskier just waiting until he gave up and dumped him on a religious order or left him alone long enough to finish the job Geralt had interrupted. But then, in broad daylight, a group of men with swords and knives poured out of the trees and ranged themselves around the front of the house. In spite of himself, Jaskier sat up to watch, focusing outward for the first time in longer than he could recall.

“Witcher! We know you’re in there, monster. You don’t belong here – this is a decent village, your kind ain’t welcome! Get the fuck out or we’ll burn that house down around your freaky white head!” The leader was tall and lean, with dark hair shot through with gray, and wore the rough spun clothing of a farmer.

Jaskier turned his head, but Geralt had already left. He turned back to the window and saw Geralt step out to meet them. He had his steel sword on his back but not yet drawn. He raised his hands in an attempt to placate the men. “Peace, please. My friend has been recovering from injuries. I mean you folks no harm. We have not been bothering you.”

“Bullshit. You been coming into _our_ village, taking our food and livestock,” another man spat.

“I paid good coin for all of it. I have not stolen or cheated anyone,” Geralt tried.

“Fuck that, you don’t deserve it! You will leave now, or we will _make_ you go.”

“I can’t do that. My friend, as I said, was injured. He has been recovering, and is not yet fit to travel.”

“Well, I guess that’s just too damned bad for you,” the leader spat. “Kill him – we’ll tear apart the house until we find his hoard, and take what is owed to us!”

Jaskier reassessed the men as they advanced. Though they appeared to be farmers, they moved as ones who had been trained to wield weapons, not farm implements. At once, he could see something was wrong. Geralt was sluggish, slow to respond to attacks, and all at once he had to wonder when it was that Geralt slept. He was always with Jaskier, and when Jaskier woke in the night, which happened often thanks to nightmares, he could see the gleam of golden eyes reflecting whatever little light was in the room.

But even sluggish, Geralt was holding the men off, though there were a solid dozen that surrounded him. Jaskier was pretty sure he would win, though he was fighting to wound rather than kill. That was, at least, until he saw more men pop up in the trees with bows drawn. Once Geralt had to deflect arrows, it left his guard down enough for the other men’s swords and knives to get through. Geralt was driven to his knees and Jaskier was suddenly standing and moving. He was down the stairs and paused to fish out a couple of potion vials from Geralt’s pack before he slammed out the front door. “Hold! Please, good sirs, I would beg you to hold!” he called.

“Who the fuck are you?” the leader demanded, but incredibly, they all stayed their weapons. “And what the fuck happened to your face?”

Jaskier let his mouth twist into a smile that was apparently unpleasant, given the way a couple of them recoiled. He closed some of the distance between them, eyes flicking between the men and Geralt, kneeling and bleeding in the grass. “I was once a bard and a willing companion to this witcher. It was thanks to this witcher that I was captured and tortured, and he has kept me here ever since, refusing to release me.” Whether it was the raw, broken quality of his voice, his words, or his scars, something made the men take a few steps back as he approached. “It is now thanks to you that I have a chance at freedom, but I would beg that you give me a chance to give him something before you finish the job.”

They traded looks but eventually nodded. “Alright – seems you’ve got even more cause than we do. Go ahead.”

“I thank you.” Jaskier bowed a little, then circled around Geralt and knelt with his back to the men. He pulled the vials out and slipped them into Geralt’s hand when the witcher reached for him. “Shh,” he whispered when Geralt started to speak, probably to tell him to run, or to apologize again or something. Jaskier wanted to hear neither. “You were never going to be able to fix me, Geralt,” he continued. “Because more than my music, more than the scars that will forever repulse people, the one thing that you could not give me was your love. I learned that long ago.” Geralt’s eyes widened. “Let me do this thing for you. This one thing, that’s all I wish – one last chance to do something _right_ for you. The princess and your sorceress need you, Geralt. Finish them, return to your destiny, and forget about me,” he begged. As quickly as he could, he pulled the knife from Geralt’s boot and stood, fending off the weak grip that tried to hold him in place. The baggy, shapeless shirt hid the knife from view for the few crucial seconds it took to reach the leader. He smiled up at the man. “Thank you for this – it was likely my only chance to leave this world with even a scrap of dignity.” He drove the knife into the man’s chest, hopefully piercing his heart, but definitely fatal all the same.

The leader staggered back with the hilt sticking out of his chest. It took a second for the rest to register what he’d done, and then he felt the blows piercing his body and looked down to see a couple arrows sticking out of him, and blood in other places where blades had entered and left behind holes. He did some staggering of his own, backwards to keep his body between Geralt and their attackers until the healing and stamina potions kicked in. He started to fall, and a strong arm caught him and lowered him carefully to the ground. As darkness started to creep in at the edges of his vision, he heard a familiar, furious growl, followed by some screaming. And smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

The moment Jaskier stood up, Geralt popped the corks on the vials – the right ones, exactly what he needed being so run down from poor appetite and lack of sleep and then, of course, getting a stabbed a couple times – and downed the contents as fast as he could swallow them. He saw the moment Jaskier stabbed the leader of the bandits – they were covered in the scent of old blood, these were no outraged farmers, the fuckers – and started to stand. He saw the rest of them register what had happened, saw the nearest two turn their blades on Jaskier. He heard the whistle of arrows as the archers turned their weapons on his friend. He leaped forward and Jasker staggered back, somehow still keeping himself between Geralt and the weapons aimed at him. He growled as the potions kicked in and caught Jaskier as he began to fall, cushioning his descent so that it wouldn’t jar his wounds further – four arrows and two knife wounds, gods, hadn’t Jaskier suffered enough?

He turned the full force of his fury on the men, revitalized stamina letting him use his signs again, and cut each one down as viciously as he had Pravid and his men.

He raced back to Jaskier’s side when the last man fell and dropped to his knees beside him. Too much blood had flowed from the stab wounds, but the arrows, at least, had acted as plugs and little blood had oozed out around them. Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his heartbeat shallow and faltering.

There was the faintest of smiles on his face.

“No. No no no! Jaskier, don’t you dare do this to me!” He ran back into the house and fumbled through his pack until he found the Xenovox Triss had left him. He yelled into it, “Triss! We were attacked, I need you now! Jaskier is hurt – dying!” He ran back out as he yelled and put his hands on the stab wounds, pressing as hard as he dared to slow the bleeding. Jaskier let out a pained whimper, but his eyes didn’t open again. In seconds, a portal opened, and both Triss and Yennefer stepped out. Triss dropped to her knees beside them and began to assess the damage.

She sat back too quickly and didn’t reach for her bag. “Geralt, stop. I cannot heal these wounds,” she said. “His lungs are pierced, his liver, a kidney, and his heart’s been nicked. No human can survive this.” She laid a hand over one of his to try to peel it away and let the blood flow free again.

“No! I can’t accept – I’ll do anything, give _anything_ , just _save him_!”

“A witcher could be saved – if it were you, I could do it. A human simply can’t survive this level of damage. I’m sorry, Geralt. I’m so sorry.”

“There might be a way,” Yennefer said suddenly. He and Triss both whipped around to stare at her. “There is an old spell – it hasn’t been used in a thousand years, but I remember it. It will…join you. Bind you. You will share in his injuries, and he will likely share at least some of your abilities.” She dropped to her knees beside them and met his gaze seriously. “I can’t guarantee it will work. The spell itself might be too much for him. It could still kill him, and it could take you with it. Even if it does work, the records were sketchy at best as to the full effects this will have. I don’t know what else it might do. It could slow his aging, or speed up yours. You could lose some of your enhancements, or maybe none at all.”

“Do it!”

“ _Listen to me_ ,” she commanded. “You must be sure. This could kill you with him. Even if it doesn’t, this binding is so much more than even what the djinn did to us. He could come to hate you for it.”

“Whatever it takes. It’s worth it. **He** is worth it,” Geralt ground out.

“Very well.”

“Yennefer, you can’t,” Triss objected. “We truly don’t know what that spell will do – shit, you might not even be strong enough to cast it! We could lose all three of you here, is that what you want?”

“I’ll be fine,” Yennefer said carelessly. “I have cast more difficult spells before.” She moved Triss out of the way and reached for Geralt’s hands. She pulled out a slender knife and slashed both of his palms, then placed them back over the bleeding wounds on Jaskier’s body. She began to chant, low and too fast for him to catch to translate the words. Almost instantly, a wind whipped up around them, howling in his ears and making translation even more impossible.

Something started under his skin. A tingle, that moved to an itch, that changed to a burning, and he hoped to god Jaskier was too deeply unconscious for it to register if the feeling were the same for him. Then pain started, in all the same places Jaskier was injured and he braced himself. The pain increased, and he felt wetness trickling down his chest. When he looked, he saw that he was bleeding from new spots, exact echoes of Jaskier’s injuries. Yennefer’s voice rose in volume until she was shrieking, but the wind was still too loud to make out the words.

All at once, everything stopped. Yen reached out and yanked the arrows out, one at a time, creating a spike of pain each time. Desperate, Geralt ripped Jaskier’s shirt open so he could better see the holes in his flesh. The one that pierced down to his heart spurted blood twice as the organ’s beat pushed the blood through his body, but then it stopped. Geralt, a little frantic, pressed a hand to his chest until he felt the heartbeat beneath it. His own pain had not subsided in the least. But he found reassurance that Jaskier no longer bled, that his heart still beat, and his chest still rose and fell with his light breathing.

He was pretty sure he was going to die, and found himself very okay with that. if all the spell had done was transfer Jaskier’s injuries to himself, he was content to know that Jaskier would live. Triss would take him in and care for him until his deathwish passed.

He didn’t die. He apparently had fallen unconscious, but he woke up again, so that was something. His body still throbbed in all the places he’d been stabbed, along with all the places _Jaskier_ had been stabbed, but it had all faded to the familiar level of an almost healed injury.

“It’s a good thing you had taken some of your potions before she did that spell, or neither of you would have survived,” Triss’ crisp voice said. He cracked an eye to meet her stare. “You’re worn down to almost nothing, Geralt. What have you been doing?”

“Watching him,” he said roughly. “I couldn’t afford to sleep. He broke his window and cut his wrist by the time I got to him. It was the wrong way to be most effective, but. I couldn’t afford to sleep.”

“You’re a fool. No sleep, poor food, and you haven’t been meditating properly to counteract either of those things. Had you not just taken the potion to boost stamina and increase healing, you would have _died_ before Jaskier’s injuries finished transferring to you. You would both be dead, and then what is Ciri supposed to do?”

“Yen would keep taking care of her. So would Vesemir.”

“Fat load of comfort that would have been for her! And what have you been doing with Jaskier? His body has healed, but his spirit hasn’t even begun to. Have you told him nothing, apologized for nothing? Reassured him of his value to you in anyway?”

“All of that.” Geralt pushed himself up with a faint groan. He was in what had been Ciri’s room when she was still staying there, untouched since they’d all left. She handed him a glass of water when he was upright on the bed and he nodded his thanks, downing it in one long go. “I have been talking to him every day. I’ve been telling him everything, everything I’ve ever thought or felt that I was too much a bastard to say before. He didn’t believe a word of it.”

“Then you had best find a way to make him believe it. It is early yet, but the bond between you is already incredibly strong. I’ve never seen anything like it. It is very likely, Geralt, that if one of you dies, so does the other. When one of you gets hurt, so will the other. There’s no telling how deep the bond will become, or what all the side effects will be.” She paused, then looked pointedly at the mirror on the wall. “Look.”

Geralt made himself stand and crossed to the mirror. His hair, for the first time since he’d been given the mutagens, was now shot through with rich brown, rather than being completely white. His eyes had changed as well – his pupils were still slitted like a cat’s, but now each iris was half gold, and half summer’s sky blue. “What the fuck.”

“I know. From what I could tell, you have not lost any of your strength or stamina, but my ability to examine you was limited. I do not know if you will begin aging faster, nor if his aging will slow. He is still unconscious, but his hair is now a mix of white and brown, and his eyes are also bicolored – though his pupils remain human round. When he wakes up, I want you to take him back to Kaer Morhen with you. This house is clearly not safe, and until we know the full effects of what the spell has done, it’s not safe for you to be alone. Geralt, I don’t even know if it’s safe for you to take your potions anymore – they would be toxic for a human, what if they’re now toxic for you? Even if they’re not, that toxicity could still affect him. You will have to determine the limits of what you can do somewhere safe, where there’s someone nearby that can step in in the event that something goes wrong.”

“That might be best,” he agreed. He turned away from the mirror at last and looked at her. She radiated disapproval in every line. “I couldn’t just let him die for me, Triss.”

“I don’t know that you’ve stopped it. You may have only delayed it for a while. And…it was his choice. Most people, when they want death as he does, there’s a crisis point, the moment they make the attempt. If they can get past that, many of them begin to improve. He has not. But it is clear that he values **your** life. If your lives are bound, all you may have done is trapped him in a hell of misery from which he cannot escape, since his escape would take your life as well.” She shook her head. “If I were him, I would not forgive you.”

“I do not need his forgiveness, only his life. I **know** he can find joy again, Triss. You have never met someone so able to find delight in almost anything. I know he can still heal and be happy.”

“Keep telling yourself that, I suppose.” She walked out.

Geralt collapsed back onto the bed, feeling a little like a puppet whose strings had been cut. With Triss out of his face, it left him able to think. And all he could think about were Jaskier’s last words to him. Because he hadn’t known. He’d never dreamed it could be possible. Someone loved him – not just lust, or possessiveness, not a djinn’s wish tying him to someone with a peculiar twisting need, but love. Maybe he should have. Maybe he should have figured out what drove Jaskier to return to him over and over, no matter the insults, the disrespect, the abandoning him in the middle of the night while he slept. But he had been so convinced for so long that no one would truly love him, not as a witcher, not with his life, and the mutations, and the Path. His own _mother_ had abandoned him, and if she hadn’t loved him enough, who else could?

But the worst part was that he loved Jaskier, too. He’d gown used to the idea of lusting after him – lust was easy, normal. Jaskier was just his type, physically. He’d always preferred dark hair, tall and slender. He could ignore lust. The love was the problem. The love made him back away while pushing away, because loving someone gave them too much power over him. He hadn’t let himself think about it, but he’d known it for years. It was at least partly why he’d latched onto Yennefer so strongly – the wish was only part of that mess. Because Yen had been safe in a way that Jaskier never could be, because she wanted too much, took too much, to be able to love someone else. He’d left Jaskier over and over again, kept him at arm’s length, could not even deign to name them as friends, because Jaskier could hurt him in a way that no one else possibly could.

Now it was probably too late. Jaskier had not believed a single word he’d said these last weeks. Had not even allowed for the possibility that Geralt was telling the truth when he said he liked his songs, his smile, his presence. That he had meant to tease rather than taunt. If he could not make Jaskier believe in just his friendship, how the fuck could he ever make him believe in his love? He was obviously terrible with words.

Well. He was obviously terrible.

He fell asleep pondering all the ways he had ruined not just his life but Jaskier’s as well. Some time later, Triss shook him awake. “Get up. Yennefer is awake and ready to return to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier woke up and drank some water, but he’s out again.” She paused to let him sit up and scrub the sleep from his face. “He was not happy about it, by the way. The whole waking up thing.”

“I figured.” He followed her out and back into Jaskier’s room. His friend was asleep, but even so, there was a moue of unhappiness on his face. He had been smiling when he thought he would die, and now, having woken to realize he didn’t, he was unhappy even in sleep. Triss gestured for him to pick him up, so he did. Jaskier didn’t feel any heavier than usual, he didn’t strain more than he would have before, so he didn’t think his physical strength had been weakened. That was good – he would have had to learn how to adjust his fighting to compensate. He had people to protect now.

On his way down the stairs and out of the house, he noted that it had been stripped bare of all the things that they had collected to make the place livable. He was a little bit sad, he realized. Before he had learned that Jaskier had been taken, this had been a good place for them, for Ciri. But more than anything, he was also glad to leave it behind. It would never not hold the memory of all of Jaskier’s pain, pain so bad that he longed and tried for death.

Yen was outside waiting when he carried Jaskier out. She was a little pale and drawn, but she was upright and nodded to him when he joined her. “Do you need help with the portal?” Triss asked her. Her chin went up and she shook her head. She stretched out her hand and a portal swirled into existence. No matter what she said, he knew she was drained, so he stepped through quickly, and then was staring up at the great gates of Kaer Morhen. Yen and Triss were quick to follow, although he hadn’t expected Tris to join them. He led the way inside and it wasn’t until they were in the main hall that he saw the other occupants. Vesemir and Ciri started down the stairs towards them, Ciri’s eyes wide and worried, Vesemir looking predictably irritated. He always looked irritated though, so Geralt paid him no mind.

“What the hell is going on?” Vesemir demanded.

“Keep your voice down, I don’t want you waking him,” Geralt hissed. If Jaskier had slept through being carried and going through a portal, then he was exhausted.

“We’ll fill you in,” Triss told them. “Geralt should get Jaskier settled somewhere. I would advise that he remain to speak with him when he eventually wakes up.”

Geralt grunted acknowledgement and headed up the stairs. He paused by Ciri to press a kiss to her forehead, but didn’t linger. He took Jaskier straight to his own room. He didn’t imagine he would be leaving Jaskier unattended any time soon, and his room was higher than anyone else’s, and would afford them the most privacy when Jaskier eventually did wake up.

He tucked Jaskier under the blankets on his bed, bringing them right up under his chin to ward off the chill that seemed to always permeate the castle, even in summer. Without meaning to, his fingers smoothed over Jaskier’s forehead and down his cheek, feeling the way his facial hair caught at the calluses on his fingertips. There was an odd sensation as he did so – a peculiar tingle under his skin like something fizzing. It didn’t hurt, and was in fact rather pleasant, but it was very definitely something new.

Jaskier stirred at the touch, turning his face into it, seeking more.

Geralt withdrew his hand. He did not have permission to touch. Even if it felt good to Jaskier’s subconscious mind, touching him while he was unaware was a gross breach of trust – not that he had Jaskier’s trust any longer. But he would never regain it in any measure if he pulled shit like that. It was likely impossible anyway, but. Just no.

To help combat temptation, he built up a fire in the hearth to start taking the chill out of the air, then pulled the wide armchair close to the bed. He was still rather tired himself, and he wasn’t sure how much rest he would be able to get once Jaskier awoke and learned what had been done to him to save his life. With his feet propped on the bed near Jaskier’s hip, he let his head tip back and closed his eyes.

Some time later, movement from the bed woke him. He had slept fairly well, though not terribly deeply, and much of his tiredness had faded. He opened his eyes to see Jaskier staring back at him. “Jaskier. I have something to tell you,” he started.

“Does it explain how I survived getting stabbed and shot with four arrows? And does it have anything to do with why your hair looks like that, and your eyes?”

“Yes. You were dying,” he started. “I called for Triss, and she and Yennefer both came, but there was nothing Triss could do. Your injuries were too severe for a human to survive.”

“It’s what I wanted,” Jaskier reminded him. “It’s what I wanted, and it was a better way to go than I could have asked for.”

Geralt felt tears prick at his eyes. “You saved my life,” he acknowledged. “I was too run down, hadn’t let myself sleep well for too long, hadn’t eaten well – I was careless. The bandits were definitely going to win. You brought the exact potions I needed, that I should have taken before I went out to confront them, and you bought me time to take them and for them to start working.”

“The White Wolf could not go out like that. Not to a bunch of stupid, angry farmers,” Jaskier interrupted. “You have a destiny to fulfill.”

“I don’t care about the destiny – Ciri is where she needs to be, to learn and grow. She would have been fine without me. I was afraid for _you_. They were no farmers, no matter what they looked like. I could smell the old, human blood on them. They would have found you, and almost no money in the house, and.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Well. You saved my life, and it can’t be a surprise to you that I could not let you die. Triss couldn’t save you, but. There was a spell, that Yennefer knows. An old one, one that isn’t entirely understood apparently. It…bound us. It let me share your injuries, and passed on at least some of my healing ability. I had the potions running through me already, so.”

“You bound us,” Jaskier said flatly.

“Yes.”

“How tightly?”

“We don’t know.” He gestured at his hair and eyes. “Something has changed, obviously. Your hair and eyes match. Yen didn’t know the extent of the sharing. The doing of the spell could have killed one or both of us. There’s a chance my mutations may have been altered or weakened, but I don’t feel any different in that regard. You may find yourself stronger, or faster, or maybe with keener senses, I suppose. Or maybe not. It might slow your aging or speed up mine – we won’t know that for a while. And….” He trailed off.

“And!” Jaskier demanded.

“There’s a chance that if one of us dies, so will the other. Again, there’s no way to know unless it happens.”

Jaskier recoiled from him – physically pushed himself further on the bed away from him. “You unbelievable fuck!” he shouted. “How dare you? How _dare_ you use your own life as hostage for mine? _Why? Why can’t you understand that this life is agony to me?_ You have claimed you care, but everything you do just brings me more pain! By the gods, I know I was a nuisance to you. I know that – maybe I didn’t fully realize for far too long, but I understand it now. And the gods know you put up with me longer than anyone else ever could have, but for fuck’s sake, when you had enough I took the fucking hint! Is this some kind of punishment? Some bizarre revenge for all the trouble I caused you over the years? You have never been a monster, Geralt, not once – what did I do that was so bad as to earn this?”

“I love you!” Geralt finally blurted out. He held out a hand beseechingly, and wasn’t surprised when it wasn’t taken. “I love you. I know you don’t believe me. I know that’s my fault. But I love you. I have for so long – I didn’t know what to do with that. Do you understand? The last person that I loved so much was my mother and she abandoned me! I have spent my entire life being told I’m nothing but an emotionless killing machine, not much better than the monsters I hunt. And I let that make me hard, and stupid, and afraid, so that I couldn’t even let myself say I was your friend because then when it ended, when you left, it would be that much worse. So I pushed you away and mocked you and left you in the middle of the night because that was supposed to be easier than watching you walk away from me. And yes, I let Yennefer bind us, and I have no idea what the extent or long term effects will be. I did it knowing that – that if you somehow didn’t already hate me, you probably would now. And I will live with that, because it kept you alive, alive so that you can have a chance to heal and find something in this world that can make it bearable again, make you _happy_ again. Because I know you, and I know that your heart is too big to let you stay closed off and miserable, if you only have the chance.”

The look Jaskier gave him made him feel very small, very stupid, and very ashamed. “It wasn’t your choice to make. You don’t have a claim on me, you don’t get to decide what is best for me, or what I am capable of, or what I need. Nothing of what you have done has been for my sake, it was all for yourself. That’s not love, Geralt. That’s just – ownership. And I don’t belong to you. My smiles, my happiness, are not yours to command. I’m sorry your mother left you, I am. I’m sorry you are afraid to care about someone else because of it. None of that gives you the right to dictate my life, to take my choices from me. To use your life as the hostage for mine. To make sweeping changes to my body for me – will I share your mutations? Do I _want to_? You didn’t even stop to ask, did you. Get the fuck away from me. I can’t even – I can’t even look at you right now. I don’t know if I ever will again.”

Geralt opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he say? He kept forcing someone to keep living who didn’t _want_ to. He’d been so sure that just given enough time, he could help Jaskier find happiness and reason to live, but. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe all he really had done was use his life as hostage to make sure Jaskier didn’t try anything, and Jaskier really would spend the next however long they both had miserable and longing for release. He closed his mouth again and could only nod and get to his feet. “I’m sorry – for everything,” he mumbled, defeated and ashamed of himself. He walked out, shutting the door quietly behind himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is kind of the end of part 1. I'm not sure if I'll add chapters to this or just start a whole new fic for the next leg of things. Also, sorry. This got away from me, and the boys are not cooperating and keep running off in different directions. i've been trying to work some comfort in with all this hurt, but they're not ready to be touched yet, it seems.

Jaskier stared at the dimly lit ceiling, trying to come to terms with – everything. Still being alive. Geralt’s blurted confession. Of all the ways he had dreamed of hearing those words, it had never been like this. With him broken, and useless, and the words used as an excuse for leashing him into a life he found unbearable. Maybe, if Geralt had told him that before the bandits and this _binding_ , maybe it would have brought him some joy. Because he could actually believe that Geralt had treated him like shit for so long because he was fighting his own feelings, but like this it seemed a poor justification for what he had done. Worse even than what he’d done to Yennefer. There was nothing in that wish of his that tied their lives _literally_ together as this spell seemed to have done to him and Geralt. Except only maybe, of course, because it was all unknown. A lot of maybes had fallen from Geralt’s mouth, but no certainties, so it wasn’t just a spell to bind them, it was a basically unknown spell on top of if all.

A big part of him, almost all of him in fact, told him to just say fuck it and have done with it anyway. The spell had saved him from his previous wounds, but surely the shared healing ability could do nothing about a direct stab to the heart, or even a cut throat. The spell was new, perhaps the binding wasn’t complete enough to affect Geralt the exact same. But that remaining part, the part of him that was wholly, fiercely in love with the infuriating witcher, wouldn’t let him do it. How often had he wanted a way to save Geralt’s life, be useful to him? He had that, after a fashion – and he need only do nothing at all.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. But he had learned as a child that life was not fair or magical or wondrous. For a time, traveling with Geralt, he’d believed that even if life itself wasn’t fair or magical or wondrous, at least some of the people could be. Now…now there wasn’t even that.

He rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world. He knew it wouldn’t work – he always had to open his eyes again eventually. And too long spent shutting out the present meant that his mind decided to replay his past, and the nightmares of his torture, and the ones where Geralt became one of them, always caught up to him. Waking or dreaming, there was never any respite for him.

The first person to walk in and see him after Geralt left was Triss. Jaskier remembered her of course, he wasn’t brain damaged. But he was a little surprised when she walked in and tried to pull back the blankets without so much as a by your leave. He shocked himself a little when his first instinctive response was to strike at her – she hadn’t hurt him, not really, not on purpose. She dodged the strike fairly easily and raised an eyebrow at him. “I need to check your healing.”

“No you don’t. Please leave me alone.”

“I’m your healer, Jaskier. And the binding on you both has not been used in a thousand years. We don’t know fully what it will do. Please let me check.”

“No. I don’t care about rare spells, I don’t care if I split back open and bleed to death. I’ve had enough of people touching me when I don’t want it. Leave me alone.”

“If something goes wrong for you, it will echo to Geralt. I saw your injuries before the spell, and I saw the way they transferred to him. It would have killed him if he hadn’t just taken those potions to staunch bleeding and boost stamina. He is not on any potions now,” she pointed out. “If your wounds reopen –“

“I. Don’t. Care. I don’t give you permission to touch me. Just leave me alone. That’s all I want.” He stared at her until she finally sighed and stepped back from the bed.

“Very well. I won’t force you. Just please, if you notice anything odd, please call for me.”

“Why would I do that? You _let_ them do this spell on me.”

“I was against it,” she retorted.

“And yet, you did nothing to stop them. Empty words mean nothing. Go away.” She stared at him some more before she finally nodded, turned, and left. Jaskier rolled over again.

His dreams were not kind to him, but he was almost getting used to it. At the house, he’d woken sometimes to Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Wherever they were now, no one pulled him out of them. Waking on his own, he found that his jaw ached fiercely from clenching it shut – and no wonder, really. After he’d screamed so badly that he’d literally _felt_ his throat tear, and knew he’d done serious damage to his voice, he had learned to keep his screams behind his teeth. His torturers had taken that as a challenge, but that was a challenge he had won more often than not. Too late to preserve his voice, but. It had been his satisfaction, cold as it was.

Geralt slipped into the room sometime the next day to leave a tray of food beside the bed. He kept his head down, but Jaskier saw his eyes flicking to peek at him through his hair. Jaskier waited for one of those fast looks and then deliberately turned his back.

But he ate the food, once Geralt had left. The threat to the witcher worked that well, at least. He could not be responsible for causing the other man to weaken. He ate what he could, although it tasted like ashes in his mouth. Ashes was still better than the rotten food from the prison.

His next visitor was the princess. Before Yennefer had taken her away, the girl had visited him frequently at the house, and he wasn’t really surprised that he had been brought to whatever secure location Geralt had sent her off to. She sat in the chair by the bed and started to talk, telling him of her training with Yennefer, and Vesemir, whose name Geralt had mentioned a couple times in the past. She spoke of the keep they were in - Kaer Morhen, of course – and the things she’d seen in the forest surrounding it. She drifted into stories from court, talking of her grandmother, of Eist, of other people who were probably equally dead and gone. He couldn’t quite tune her out, and he couldn’t quite make himself tell her to go. She was just a child, one who’d had her whole world ripped from her in the span of a night. He bore her no ill will, and though he very much wanted her to leave, and leave him to his quiet, he couldn’t do it.

He did pull away when she attempted to touch his hand, though. Not even for a child, apparently, could he tolerate being touched.

Geralt slipped in again when she’d left to exchange the mostly empty tray with a full one, and again couldn’t look Jaskier full in the face. He honestly reminded Jaskier of a beaten dog, slinking around and avoiding eye contact, radiating misery. There was a certain satisfaction in that, he realized. Geralt had made him feel like that so often through the years, although he was pretty sure he’d hidden it better. He’d felt worthless, and foolish, and sometimes incredibly stupid, and none of those things had been new to him – his family had seen to that. But he had always gone back to him, always been so fucking _happy_ when he’d managed to cross the other man’s path, and he’d put up with it, accepted it almost as his due, and just basked in those all too rare moments when…when Geralt was quiet, relaxed. Sitting around a fire with Geralt tending to his weapons or armor while Jaskier just played quietly, and he had felt like he was almost accepted. Like for once someone didn’t mind his presence. Those moments had never lasted very long, but by the gods, he had utterly lived for them. Every barb, every abandonment, had been forgiven as soon as they’d happened, before. He was all out of forgiveness. He didn’t expect Geralt’s apparent guilt to last very long. At some point, he fully expected the witcher to get impatient and tell him he was being unreasonable, foolish, something along those lines. So he was going to take what satisfaction he could from Geralt feeling a fraction of the misery that was his entire existence.

A couple days passed like that, with Geralt wordlessly bring food and swapping out the chamber pot, while the princess came in and sat and talked at him with a seemingly endless supply of words. Then Yennefer apparently decided it was her turn. He looked up when his door opened ahead of schedule and then narrowed his eyes when she walked in, confident and alluring and giving off the air of someone who owned the world, exactly as she always had. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Charming, Jaskier. Really, you’ve such a gift with words.”

He laughed at her – and it was almost genuinely amused. “Oh, do I get more of your bitchy commentary? Go on, then. Here, I’ll help – please notice the abundance of white in my hair. That’s a good place to start, don’t you think, you hypocritical, egotistical _cunt_.” He rolled to his knees as she turned to face him, a hint of a frown around her mouth. “You swan around the world, taking whatever you please, acting like just because you have the power somehow gives you the right. Tell me, just how fucking ugly were you when you were taken to Aretuza, hmm?” He let his eyes track over her. “No simple blemish for you, was it?”

“And what would you know about it, little bard?”

“Oxenfurt’s library is vast and old, and my curiosity was never sated. I know why you can’t have children. I know they cut it out of you, and I know you had to agree to it, or the magic to remake your form would not have worked. And I know there is no similar ‘graduation’ for the men.” He stood on legs that were not all that steady, really, as much as he’d been spending his time laying in bed. But it actually felt kind of good to stand up to her, verbally and literally. “You must have been _hideous_. Denied so much before you came into your power that now all you know how to do is take. And you don’t give a fuck who you hurt when you do. Like all those people in that house. Did they agree to the orgy? Hmm? Because I do recall their reactions when you ended the spell. Did you ever give a thought to the damage you did to them, when you forced them to fuck each other until you had something more interesting to do? I find you utterly vile, and I always have. You’d best be very careful with teaching Ciri, witch. So so careful, because I would wager that girl is the only thing in this world that you feel something true and real for, and if you show her your true self, she’d be revolted – like everyone was, when you were young.”

She didn’t pale, or flinch, or hardly even blink at him. She was too controlled for that. But he still had the feeling she flinched. “The little bard has teeth. I would not have guessed, the way you lay around feeling sorry for yourself. One sad little skill was all you had, not that it was much of one. And without that, you’re nothing. Poor little wing-clipped songbird.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to hurt me. Unfortunately, that is one power you don’t have. I would have to give even the slightest fuck about you for that to happen. I wouldn’t have pissed on you if you were on fire even before Pravid got ahold of me. Now I’d just laugh and pour pitch on to make it burn all the hotter. What you did to me was a thousand times worse than what Geralt did to you with that wish. But of course, that hardly matters, does it? Because it was you who was the one doing it, rather than receiving. I still have a scrap of mercy left in me, of kindness, remnants of love. I might be the one ugly on the outside now, but I am incandescent compared to what you are on the inside. Run back and pretend you’re someone’s mother and pray she never realizes you’re as barren in your soul as you are in your body.” He curled his lip in a sneer. “I can see why they ripped your womb from your body – you’d breed nothing but monsters.”

Without another word, she turned and stalked out of the room.

Ciri didn’t invade his room again after that. Jaskier didn’t know what Yennefer had told her, and didn’t really care – the quiet was a gift. His only disturbances after that were Geralt’s creeping visits to bring him his food and deal with the chamber pot, skulking in and out like an abused servant in some lord’s house. He was free to think – wallow really – about his situation, his entire life. A very distant part of him, probably the same part that couldn’t let him truly hate Geralt as he wanted to, insisted that what he was doing wasn’t good for him or for anyone else. But day in and day out, when he wasn’t reliving his time with Pravid, he relived every harsh word Geralt had ever said to him, every time he’d woken at a camp site or inn to find Geralt had slipped away in the night and left him stranded. Sometimes he was able to redirect his thoughts to past performances, the crowds that had clapped and sung along and tossed him coins, but those were just as painful as any other memory now. Once those memories, those experiences had been the only thing he had to keep going on, the only thing that told him he had _some_ value to the world, and now he would never have those again. His fingers were clumsy just buttoning his pants, he would _never_ play the lute again. He could probably manage a drum, sure. And some songs did well with only that as accompaniment, but his voice was ruined as well.

There would never be applause for him again.

He could always return to Lettonhove, he supposed. His family was more or less obligated to take him in, and they would say nothing to him that he hadn’t heard before, and nothing he didn’t already say to himself. But knowing he was broken and worthless was one thing, hearing the same from others was always somehow worse. He was in agony enough, and he would not willingly seek out fresh.

Day after day, night after night, his mind was filled with nothing but pain and rage and grief, and a desire for an end to it all so strong that he found himself searching the room for something sharp. It was clearly a witcher’s room, and he found many sharp things. He laid them all out on the floor beside the bed and just stared at them. Knives and little glass vials, a silver – tipped spear, even a couple of swords. There was a small mirror that mocked him with his freakish appearance, showing his mixed brown and white hair and bicolored eyes. Even the unkempt beard on his face was mixed, not salt and pepper as could be explained by age, but large streaks of white and brown, as though someone thought striped facial hair was a look worth attempting. But shaving it off would be pointless, unless he wished to shave his whole head too, since his hair was the same way. And anyway, shaving the beard would just reveal even more of the scar that twisted down the side of his face, and he didn’t need to see more of that than he already could.

Eventually the temptation to _use_ any one of the deadly instruments would get strong enough that his hand would reach out to choose one, and then he remembered that his injuries would always be shared with Geralt. The witcher would know as soon as he broke the skin, and even if he was successful in inflicting an actually fatal injury before someone got to him, it was too likely that Geralt would share his death as well. When he reached that point, he had to shove everything under the bed and out of sight, because he could not, **would not** , risk Geralt’s life as well. And that realization would make him angry all over again, because he had not asked for this, had actively tried to take himself out of the picture for good, and he didn’t want to be tied to Geralt anymore. He wanted to be free of the man that had never truly wanted him, who had only ever saved him out of some misplaced sense of responsibility and guilt, and who had even lied to him about loving him.

What would he have done, how far would he have taken that cruel lie – perhaps not cruelly meant, but cruel nonetheless – if Jaskier had let himself believe it? If Jaskier had thrown himself into his arms and sought his kiss and touch? Would he have kissed back? Would he have made himself bed Jaskier? How long would the charade have lasted? A few days, weeks, months? _Years?_ _A lifetime?_ How far would his guilt have driven him?

Eventually, after who knew how long of the same routine, he found himself unable to push the blades and little vials that would shatter into shards so easily back under the bed. Instead when he reached out, his hand closed around the hilt of a knife. It was small, made of silver, ideal for throwing, he guessed. And it was very, very sharp – as all witcher blades were. He watched his hand bring the point of that knife to bear on the opposite wrist, where a white line marked his attempt. He pressed the point against his skin, and the sting was so _sweet_. Relief was so very, very close. A drop of blood welled up around the point, and Jaskier could only stare, transfixed. He would have to be fast. Faster than his other attempt. And it would have to be deep, and long, and impossible to fix, or else Geralt would surely –

With a low cry, he flung the blade across the room and doubled over, hands fisted in his hair. He rocked on his knees for an uncounted time, yanking at his hair in an attempt to make his mind focus on something outside of himself, of his tortured mind whispering to him about how sweet the release would be, how _quiet_ and _still_ and _peaceful_ it would be.

Eventually his mind quieted enough that he was able to shove the blades back under the bed and stagger to his feet. He swayed for a minute, hand braced on the bedpost to keep from falling over, then made his way to the door to lock it. Then he went and collapsed to the floor in front of the fire. This whole thing, the entire situation, was untenable. He could not continue to exist as he was, a scarred broken thing hiding in a witcher’s bedroom, being fed and watered and cleaned up after like a pet. Craving release, but chained into a world he wanted to be quit of. But he would not risk Geralt’s life. No amount of pain could make him do that. There _had_ to be a way to break the binding. Yennefer and Triss might think it was permanent, but experience had shown that mages did not know everything, else Yennefer would not have spent so long, tried so many different ways, to get her womb back, only giving up on that fool’s quest when the Borch told her it was never going to happen.

He straightened at that thought. Borch, the golden dragon of myth. Ancient and mysterious and wise, who had been able to see the tangled threads that Geralt had woven with a single wish, who had read Yennefer’s purpose seemingly on the air. There was no point in approaching the Brotherhood – they were too dangerous, did things for their own amusement and/or gain, and he would not put it past them to just fuck with him to no good end. But Borch had been…kind, in his fashion. The truth had not been pleasant for either witch or witcher, but it was kinder than letting them twist in the wind. Perhaps he could help. If he would agree to at let… _look_ , and maybe just nudge Jaskier towards the right path to freedom, it would be enough. The dragon didn’t owe him anything, of course. He hadn’t been of any real help in saving the egg, having missed seeing the fight, much less helping with it, but. But maybe he would just be kind for kindness’ sake. And he would lose nothing for the asking.

Resolve stiffened his spine for the first time in…weeks. Probably more like months. He rose and rummaged through the room for something besides instruments of death and came up with some old clothes, larger than he needed, than he would have needed even before starvation had withered his frame to its current near skeletal state, but they would do. There was an old leather belt, after all, and a bit of work with one of the knives made a notch where he needed to cinch it tight to keep his stolen trousers up. The old boots he found were a little big on his feet, but after layering a couple pairs of wool socks on, he could walk easily enough in them. Then he dug out the knives again, returned them to the sheaths he had found with them, and stashed a few about his person and in the bundle he was slowly cobbling together. He would _not_ be taken again by anyone without fighting back. Not ever again.

When he had what he wanted all rolled together, he went to the door and unlocked it. Then he cracked it open. He wasn’t sure if he would be stopped from leaving and didn’t want to find out. Geralt had trapped him in a life he didn’t want, what would trapping him in a castle be compared to that? But it was well into night, and he heard no sounds. He stayed as quiet as he could be, considering witcher hearing, and began to wander.

He found stairs and went down them, and poked through a few doors until he found one that led outside. The night air was cool against his face, but not cold. Summer was winding down but it was certainly not over yet, which would be helpful.

More helpful was the stable he found, and the familiar horse that greeted him. His conscious pricked at him as he greeted Roach, but his conscious was a sad, quiet thing these days, and easy to ignore. He saddled her, as he had helped to do countless times in the past and tied his things onto the saddle as he had not been permitted to do before. He made sure to take her gear and a bag of oats as well – she did not deserve to be well cared for just because he never wanted to see her owner again.

He felt eyes on him as he led her out of the stable and mounted her. He shifted a bit in the saddle. It had been a very long time since he had ridden, and he wasn’t used to it. He ignored the feeling – he knew who it was. Let Geralt try to stop him if he wanted, Jaskier would leave no matter what. And Geralt would have to lay hands on him to get him to stop – would have to cause actual bodily harm, and he didn’t think the witcher had that in him. Without a backwards look, he steered Roach out of the keep and down the mountain. He would find a way to be free, one way or another.


	7. Give Me Back My Heart You Wingless Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this the second arc. I swear to god I am trying to get these boys happy again.

Borch was not an easy man – dragon – dragonman to find. Jaskier hadn’t expected him to be. He didn’t know where he lived, after all. And he very much doubted that he had remained on that mountain. Why would he? There was nothing there except a dead mate mixed in with other corpses, and he had an egg to hatch and a child to raise. But that mountain was the only reference Jaskier had for him, so he headed there with a single minded determination that he had rarely experienced in his life.

Traveling was not easy. He was not used to riding, and sitting in the saddle left his back, legs, and ass sore by the end of the day. But he was used to pain and was able to tune that out. More difficult was food. He had never been much of a hunter, and had to rely on snares to catch anything. Some nights he was successful, some nights he wasn’t. But hunger, too, was familiar and easily tuned out. He never got quite as hungry as he had expected he would, which made him wonder if it was the mysterious bond that helped to bolster him.

The weather was also not fun. Most of the time it was fine, but the times that it rained left him drenched and chilled, without even his former bulk to help keep him warm. But there again his time in Pravid’s care helped, because at least the rain was clean, rather than old rank swill being tossed over him. And Roach was warm, and didn’t seem to mind when he stretched over her neck to soak up some of her heat.

He avoided human settlements like the plague. He wanted no curious, disgusted, or pitying eyes on him. Between the scarring, the changed hair and eyes, and the lack of grooming, he would receive no other kind of look. Worse was the idea of some stranger talking to him – how did one make conversation when all one wanted was death? He was rusty on social interaction, but he was pretty sure that would be a conversation killer right from the start.

He didn’t sleep much, and stopped to rest only when Roach was in need. He didn’t need a bedroll, which was good because he hadn’t brought one. The ground was fine for the brief bouts of sleep he was able to catch. The nightmares were much worse out on the road, without thick stone walls and a witcher nearby – apparently both of those things had actually soothed some part of him, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. That was pretty annoying, actually. He wouldn’t have any nightmares at all if Geralt had just let him go – they should not be soothed in any measure by his presence. It made him seriously wonder how fucked up he truly was.

A journey that would have taken him months on foot took him just weeks with Roach, and he found himself facing the dragon mountains again, near Caingorn, and wondering how to go about searching for the dragonman. He had successfully avoided human interaction in all the intervening weeks, but he couldn’t exactly continue to do so. Borch could appear human, had clearly been familiar with how humans interacted. It wasn’t out of the question to think he kept up some kind of human life, if only to know what humans were doing and where to avoid going.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to go into town. His rough, unkempt appearance instantly drew some notice, and people whispered when they caught a glimpse of his eyes, which he tried to ignore. But it felt like unfriendly eyes followed him every step, and he checked the dagger at his waist almost obsessively. As he recalled, there was a blacksmith in town that did a fair trade in weapons, and he presented the man with one of the silver daggers he’d pilfered from the keep. He had two others, and the silver would fetch a higher price than one of the steel. His appearance and rough voice seemed to help him, as it fetched a higher price than he’d been hoping for. He found a decent inn and ordered a bath for himself and some pampering for Roach – she had more than earned it.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he bathed himself thoroughly. He felt quite a bit better, and promised himself he would not deprive himself of the comfort for so long again. Just because he was used to being dirty, didn’t mean he _had_ to be dirty. He trimmed his hair and beard down into something presentable, although still not the clean shaven, stylish cut he used to wear, and felt slightly prepared to face people again.

He ordered a meal and sat in the corner, observing the people present. Most seemed to be travelers and were unlikely to know the man he sought. So he started with the innkeeper.

“Borch Three Jackdaws? I know him,” the man confirmed. “Ain’t been seen in a couple years, mind. Last I heard, he was headed back to Creydon – that’s where he’s from, or so I heard. If you see him, tell him I said hello. He’s a good man that always paid his tab.”

“If I find him, I will do that. Thank you,” Jaskier said, not too awkwardly, apparently, as the innkeeper just nodded. He went to his room and tried to sleep, but even with the shutters over the window closed and the door locked, he couldn’t relax. Pravid’s men had taken him right from an inn just like this, and the locked door hadn’t deterred them in the slightest. It had only meant Jaskier had nowhere to run.

Giving up on sleep, Jaskier tucked his back into a corner and sat there with a dagger in hand, ears listening for any sounds and his eyes fixed to the door handle, ready to move if it so much as twitched. But of course it didn’t, and when the sun was finally over the horizon he climbed stiffly to his feet and made his way out to the stable. Roach greeted him happily enough, well fed and watered, and happy for the pleasant night spent indoors. Jaskier spent a bit of extra time brushing her down and braiding her mane, whispering affection in her twitching ears. She had been a lovely travel companion, and he hoped he had taken care of her well enough. She certainly didn’t seem displeased when he saddled her again and rode out once again.

In Creydon he learned that Borch had only been seen a handful of times since that disastrous dragon hunt, but also that he apparently had a holding a ways up the mountain. Jaskier had coin enough left and treated Roach to another night in the stable while he sat up all night staring at another locked door with dagger in hand. In the morning, he followed the directions given and made his way up the mountain road.

Vea greeted him at about the time he was able to make out what seemed a small manor house. She cocked her head at him for a couple minutes, then gestured for him to follow. He obeyed, relieved at the relative ease with which he had found his quarry. It didn’t necessarily mean he would get answers but. At least something had gone right for him for a change.

Borch greeted him at the door, seeming unchanged from the mountain. It hadn’t really been all that long, though, so Jaskier wasn’t sure why he’d thought he would have. “Jaskier, wasn’t it? What has brought you seeking my door?”

“I need information, and I was hoping you might have it.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I do owe you. You’re ballad of the mountain was incredibly discrete, and offered some very useful misdirection,” Borch allowed.

“No sir,” Jaskier said firmly. “You owe me nothing for that. I was never going to put out information that would have people hunting a baby – no matter what species that baby is.” He looked anxiously up at the man. “The egg _did_ hatch alright, didn’t it?”

“It did,” Borch told him gently. “My daughter is well. Please, come in. If I can help, I will.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier followed him into his house, unsurprised by the quality of the furnishings inside. Even if the myth of a dragon’s hoard were baseless, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that a being so long lived could acquire wealth during that life. Just exploring and finding natural deposits of gold or gems or whatever could do it, especially when one didn’t have to fear monsters during the exploring part.

Borch led him to a comfortably appointed room and poured him a glass of fine wine. They sat and Borch gestured at him. “Ask, Jaskier. I think I know what information you seek – it has been a thousand years since I have heard of that spell being cast.”

“So you _can_ see it,” Jaskier said, relieved. “You can see what they did to me.”

“I can see what a lot of people have done to you, good and bad.” Borch took his free hand, fingers tracing Jaskier’s crooked ones. “Rather different people, with very different motivations.”

“Maybe so, but I was not asked about any of it,” he said bitterly. “Not the torture that maimed me and took my music, and not this fucking spell that bound me to a selfish gods damned witcher. Can the spell be broken?”

“Broken? No, Jaskier. This is no ordinary spell. This is a joining of souls that was done. You are joined with Geralt for life and into death. But it could not have worked if you did not love each other. What happened?” Borch’s voice was quiet, thoughtful, concerned, and his eyes were kind. Jaskier spilled the whole sorry affair in a voice that radiated despair. “I see. I am sorry, Jaskier. To attempt to break the binding would literally shred both your soul and Geralt’s. It would be an agony that no torturer could equal, and there would be no peace out the other side. But I can tell you what the full effects will be, so you can at least be prepared.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Jaskier agreed heavily. He stared down into his wine, fingers clasped around the metal until the tips turned white with the force.

“You’ve seen the physical effects, at least some of them. Even between two humans, the ability to heal for each of you would be improved, as injuries are halved – each of you would share in any wounds. With Geralt’s profession, I’m afraid you’ll have rather more pain in your future. The bond will only grow, even with your physical distance. You’ll be able to feel what he feels, emotionally, and eventually, given your now extended lifespan, hear each other’s thoughts as well. I think your physical distance will slow that happening, but it won’t prevent it entirely. For you, I believe you’ll begin to share in some of his stamina, his strength. Your senses will heighten to a certain extent, although I doubt you will equal him unless you took the mutagens too. But, Jaskier, I want to assure you of something here.” Jaskier looked up and met his gaze. “This spell would quite simply have not worked if Geralt did not love you as much as you love him. It bound your souls. If either of you did not love the other wholly, truly, the spell would have rebounded. You would certainly have died, with already mortal injuries. Yennefer likely would have as well, consumed by her own power. Geralt… _may_ have survived, but he would not have enjoyed the experience. Magic is unkind to feckless idiots.”

“It should help, shouldn’t it? That he actually loves me? But somehow it doesn’t,” Jaskier confessed. “Somehow…it almost seems worse. That he could love me and continuously ignore what I wanted, what I needed, keep me trapped in a life that I want so much to be free of.”

“Sometimes love can be selfish and blind,” Borch agreed. “All he could see was a world without you in it, and for him, that was unacceptable. Especially with his sins against you not atoned for.”

“So what do I do now?”

“That I cannot tell you. You have a right to your anger, your grief, and your pain. And Geralt has a difficult path ahead of him. Only you will be able to decide if or when you might be ready to walk it with him. Short term, however, I would advise you to either head south or obtain warmer clothing. Autumn is not far off, and winter is never far behind autumn.” No invitation to stay, but then, Jaskier would have declined out of hand. He wanted no man’s pity, not even and extraordinary dragonman.

“Thank you. I appreciate the information, and your honesty.”

“You’re welcome, Jaskier. I wish you good luck. And healing.”

Jaskier nodded at him and followed Vea out of the house. Roach bumped him when he walked over to her, snuffling against his shirt. “No treats, darling. I’m sorry. We’ll find somewhere warm, hmm? And I’ll make sure I have a ready supply of apples.”

He took Borch’s advice and headed south. He went back to avoiding settlements, uninterested in dealing with people now that he didn’t really need to anymore. When he hit Redania, he made sure to keep well away from where Pravid’s holding had been, although he was sure Geralt had been pretty damned thoroughly in wiping out the lord and all his men. He kept away from Oxenfurt as well. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him easily, but he wasn’t willing to risk it. Let his name and his reputation die, let them think that Jaskier had died. It was better than anyone knowing the truth.

He stopped for a time in the Owl Hills at the edge of Temeria. He’d found a lovely little spot, with a nice clear pond, and a field of tall grass for Roach to graze her fill while he contemplated what to do. He was near enough to Kerack that it would be a fairly quick trip to Lettonhove. As painful as it would be, he _did_ have a right to live there and claim his share of the family wealth. He could even take up his title, and take up the life that his parents had wanted him to live. He was quite certain his mother could even find him a wife, if he allowed, although the thought of trying to bed some poor maid whose parents had foisted her onto him for the sake of money and alliance, while she cringed away from the scars on his body and shrank from the touch of his twisted fingers…no. Just the idea of that was enough to twist his stomach.

Better to stay on the road, keep rough. If he kept south enough, the winter would not be too bad. He just needed to avoid Nilfgaardian territory. They had zero problems conscripting anyone even slightly able bodied, and he had no interest in being made all but a slave. East into Rivia wouldn’t be bad, and it would be almost amusing, in a twisted sort of way. There were horse traders out of Rivia. He liked horses, and he’d won over Roach, so he considered himself pretty decent with them. He could find work, and Roach might even enjoy having horse friends of her own.

Jaskier decided to stay another day in his nice little spot. The weather was still fine, autumn a tad further off that far south than it had been by the mountains, and Roach was enjoying herself. A couple of his snares proved fruitful, and he had two nice fat hares to skin and cook. There was no hurry yet.

He lounged by his small fire, idly feeding it branches to keep it going. His back was cushioned pleasantly by a pile of grass he’d gathered together, and he’d taken the time to wash out his clothes. So he was enormously upset to hear the sound of another horse drawing near, and raced to yank on his damp shirt and trouser before the rider was in sight. He was on his feet and facing the sound, dagger concealed just behind his leg.

The rider was a man, tall, with dark hair and a scar of his own that cut down from his forehead, over his eye, and to the top of his cheek. He swept his gaze over Jaskier and his sad little campsite, but made no threatening moves. Jaskier backed up a bit to where he had hobbled Roach for the night, ready to free her and ride off. The man’s gaze sharpened when they took both him and Roach in. His hand went for a sword, and it was then that Jaskier registered that there were _two_ of them on the man’s back.

“Fuck my life anyway, another fucking witcher,” he said dully.

“Aye, and I know that horse. Where did you come by her?” the other witcher demanded.

“From Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said bluntly. “He fucking owed me.”

“Geralt does not part with Roach – ever. Try again.”

“It’s the damned truth. You’re a witcher, I know you can smell when someone lies. He let me take her, because he fucking owed me. More than a horse, but I took what I could get.”

“Where and when was this?”

“Weeks ago, and we were at Kaer Morhen at the time.” Jaskier rattled off a fast description of what he’d seen on his way out, which truthfully wasn’t much, but apparently it was enough.

“What’s your name?”

“Jaskier.”

“The bard,” the witcher said. He swung down off his horse and stepped closer, studying Jaskier intently.

Jaskier’s lips twisted. “Bard no more, thanks to him.” He held up both hands, dagger still in the right. The twisted nature of his fingers was still evident though.

“And the dagger? Where did you get that?”

“From Kaer Morhen. I won’t be caught entirely defenseless again.”

“Were you aware that it’s one of Geralt’s as well?”

“How the fuck would I know that? We weren’t on speaking terms when he dragged me there against my will.”

The witcher kept studying him closely for a time. In the distance, something howled. It wasn’t quite a wolf, and certainly not a coyote. In fact, it reminded Jaskier far too much of a time about six years prior when he’d followed Geralt to a village being plagued by a….”Werewolf?” he questioned. That had been one of the hunts that Geralt had flat out refused to let him near, all but locking him inside the inn. But the fight had been close enough that the creature’s howls could easily be heard.

The witcher nodded. “You picked a bad spot for camping.”

“Well fuck. Is there a village close enough….” He trailed off when the witcher just shook his head.

“You wouldn’t make it. Closest one is back towards the werewolf.” The witcher looked around and then grunted. “We’ll resume the discussion of the horse thievery later. Put your fire out and pack your shit. Leave the horses unhobbled. If they get nervous, mount up and let Roach have her head. I’ll be sure to find you later.” It was a warning, a promise, a threat. Jaskier just rolled his eyes and moved to throw dirt on the fire, smothering it without producing too much smoke. The witcher withdrew his silver sword, swallowed one of his potions, and vanished back towards where the howl had come from.

Jaskier bundled up his other set of clothes and tied everything back onto Roach and swapped out the steel dagger for the silver one that he’d kept. Apprehension twisted in his gut, but not for himself. It all tied in with the fucking spell, and the confirmation that his death was Geralt’s death, and the bigger picture of what would happen in the world if Geralt’s destiny were thwarted by his too early demise – what would happen to the princess? If it was Geralt’s job to look after her, to teach her, guard her, until she was grown and could take back her throne…what would the world look like if Geralt could not do that? In a way, it seemed absurd that destiny could be thwarted by one man’s absence, but Jaskier had studied history extensively. Remarkable people doing remarkable things had changed the world before, and it had been easy to spot where things would have gone utterly to shit without that one person doing that one crucial thing. Destiny seemed to like lynchpins, and Geralt was definitely one.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Jaskier waited in the dark. He kept his ears peeled for the slightest hint of sound and kept his eyes on the horses. The usual night sounds continued for a good hour or more, and then there was another howl in the not as distant as before distance. Even the insects went silent, and both Roach and the other horse became tense, shifting restlessly, nostrils flaring as they scent the air, ears flicking as they searched for sounds. He sidled over next to Roach and got his empty hand on the pommel, ready to yank himself up into the saddle at a moment’s notice. There were a couple more howls, and then something that sounded more like a scream, and then silence again.

The silence lasted long enough for the night sounds to return and the horses to calm down. Jaskier stepped a little away from Roach and kept searching the darkness in the direction the witcher had vanished, the direction the sounds had come from. Eventually his searching was rewarded with a hint of movement as the witcher stumbled out of the trees, sword sheathed but limping. The witcher’s eyes were black pits, the way Geralt’s got when he’d taken one of his potions. He grunted when he noted Jaskier and went straight to his horse to dig around in his saddlebags. With his back to him, Jaskier could see the way the armor was shredded and the blood that oozed out. He watched the witcher struggle to remove it, though the man didn’t make a single sound of discomfort.

Jaskier warred with himself and his new aversion to touch, but in the end, it wasn’t in him to let someone struggle and suffer, not when he could help. He approached, feet loud as he could make them in the grass under them, and started to help the witcher undo the straps that kept the armor in place.

“The fuck are you doing?” the witcher snarled, turning on him suddenly.

“Helping. Unless you enjoy the pain of getting out of this shit on your own while your back drips all over the ground?” He met the suspicious gaze openly. “Don’t even pretend you think I’m a threat. We both know that even injured, you could kill me with one hand.” The witcher kept up the hard look, clearly threatening, then grunted consent. In short order, Jaskier had him out of the shredded leather armor and then let the man just yank the ruins of his shirt off himself. Under the full moon, Jaskier could see the rents down his back, four claw marks that would need stitches in the middle where they were deepest. “Have you needle and thread? I can stitch these, if you thread the needle.”

“Can you even see?”

“You thread the needle, I’ll build the fire back up.” While the witcher got the medical supplies ready, Jaskier scraped the dirt out of his fire pit and laid a fresh one. The witcher was too impatient to let him start the flames with tinder and just threw _igni_ at the wood, and since it was quicker, Jaskier didn’t complain. He rinsed the dirt from his hands and accepted the threaded needle and bandages the witcher handed him and got to work. It was harder than even he’d thought it would be, fingers clumsy on the skinny needle, but he got the work done. it wasn’t exactly pretty, but it was certainly better than the witcher could have managed on his own. He covered the wounds with the healing salve, then wrapped the bandages around the man’s chest to keep them covered. If he healed as fast as Geralt, the stitches would need to come out in a couple days, three at the very outside. “Done,” he grunted, and went to rinse his hands in the pond.

When he turned back, he found the witcher dressed in a clean shirt and staring pointedly at him with one hand on his steel sword. Jaskier sighed. “What’s your name, witcher?”

“Lambert. Now how about you tell me exactly how you came to have Geralt’s horse?”

“Fine. Have a seat.” He plopped himself to the ground next to the fire and waited until the witcher was settled in, then launched into the whole sorry fucking story. There was no point in embellishment, even objectively, the bare facts were dramatic enough for any bard to drool over. Had he not been so directly involved, Jaskier could have created an entire song cycle out of it and would probably have toned down a few parts. When he finished, he made a little ‘there you have it’ gesture and waited for Lambert to decide he was full of shit and make off with Roach to go find Geralt.

Instead, Lambert rubbed his forehead and put away his sword. “My brother is a fucking idiot.”

“Brother?”

Lambert shrugged. “We are of the same school, went through the trials together. As close to brothers as a witcher ever gets. Why the fuck did you put up with him for so long?”

Jaskier stared at the fire. “Because I thought we were friends. Because no one else put up with me for so long without running me off. Because I cared about him and was stupid enough to think that him putting up with me and saving my life when I did something foolish meant more than it did.”

“According to that dragon, it actually did mean more.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t. I let him treat me like shit for two decades, Lambert. I traipsed after him like a prize idiot, I worked my ass off to try to make things better for him in the world, and I fucking succeeded. I passed over patronage from some of the wealthiest people on the continent, royalty included, so I could keep tripping along behind him. And whatever love he felt, it wasn’t strong enough for him to even call me a friend. It wasn’t strong enough to keep him from insulting my music, the way I dressed, the way I interacted with people. I didn’t need compliments, but he could have at least not insulted me, but I wasn’t worth that effort for him. I wasn’t worth the effort for a quick ‘hey, so people know you follow me around like a pathetic fucking dog, so you might want to avoid that part of Redania, there’s a petty fucker with a grudge against me who will probably give you a hard time’. Just that much and I would have my hands, and my voice, and my lute. I would still have _my life_ , I would still be **me**. And then when all I wanted was an end, he took that away from me too, and now I have to keep my heart beating so that his does too, and I am stuck in a miserable existence when all I want is for everything, all of it, to _stop_ , but my end is his end, so that is out of my reach too now. So tell me exactly how his love is supposed to mean something to me now, how is it supposed to make anything better?”

“It doesn’t, apparently. I guess I just don’t fully understand. Geralt wasn’t the one that tortured you. He saved you from them. In fact, he should probably avoid Redania for a good long time, because the stories circulating about him there are worse than even after Blaviken,” Lambert said quietly. “And he loves you. You have proof of that now. I get that you can’t play music anymore, but I don’t understand why that makes such a difference.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Tell me, Lambert. What do you love?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You wake up every day and go from place to place, contract to contract. You spend your life sleeping rough more often than not, you don’t get the warmest welcome when you enter a town, your life is dirty, hard, and often extremely dangerous. Why? What do you love that makes you get up and do it over and over again?”

“….nothing. I do it because that is what witchers are for. It’s what we were literally made for.”

Jaskier nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say. Do you have any idea what it feels like to love something? To be called to do something so strongly that you’d be willing to walk away from everything you were born for, everything you were trained and molded to be? The joy, the satisfaction, the hunger to keep doing it, to get better at it, to never stop, and the way it makes your entire soul feel like it’s flying?” Lambert’s mouth dropped open a little and he shook his head slowly. “That was what music was for me. It’s what I was made for, made **of**. And it was still nothing compared to what I felt for Geralt. And his love, while strong enough for the binding to work, wasn’t enough for him to even say we were friends. It wasn’t enough for him to warn me of danger. It wasn’t enough to keep him from blaming me for the things that went wrong in his life. It wasn’t enough for him to set me free when my pain was so bad that it overwhelmed everything else. If he had asked it of me, I would have given up music for the rest of my life. Now I am just lost, and broken, and everything hurts. I can’t bear it. I’m not strong enough. But I don’t have a choice, because in spite of everything, I still don’t want him to die. So go ahead and take Roach. Take the knives back too, if you want. Fuck, go ahead and hit me if you think I deserve it – we both know I couldn’t stop you. But unless you want Geralt dead too, I would at least leave my heart beating.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jaskier.”

“You would be the first.” With that, Jaskier was done talking. He laid down and turned his back to the fire and Lambert across it and closed his eyes. He didn’t expect to fall asleep, but actually felt his body begin to relax and his thoughts to slow, and let it happen. Whatever Lambert would do, he would do and there wasn’t anything Jaskier could do to change that. and he honestly didn’t care very much. It was almost freeing, in a way. If Lambert didn’t believe him and killed him in his sleep, then it wasn’t his fault, was it? Destiny and the gods or whoever couldn’t get mad him for that. And he was just so tired.

Some time later he was pulled from a memory – nightmare – of drowning beneath water tainted with his torturers’ piss to see Lambert above him, forehead creased in what could be mistaken for concern. Jaskier’s jaw ached and he was covered in sweat, but his throat lacked the raw feeling that came from screaming until his throat bled, so he wasn’t sure what the issue was. He rolled away from the hand on his shoulder and sat up. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“And?”

Lambert frowned even harder. “And you reek of terror and I was worried you’d crack your teeth with the way you were grinding them.”

“Hasn’t happened yet. Sorry about the smell.” He moved around so that the light breeze would carry his scent away from the witcher and laid back down.

“You’re just…going back to sleep?”

“What else am I supposed to do,” he asked, eyes closed.

“I’m not sure. Talk about it? I’ve heard that’s supposed to help.”

Jaskier barked out a laugh. “Right. I don’t think so. I relive it all enough, thanks.”

“Hmm.” Lambert went quiet and Jaskier assumed he went back to sleep. It took a little longer for him, as he worked to think of other things to replace the sense-memory taste in his mouth, but eventually he drifted off himself again.

Lambert again woke him from a nightmare and Jaskier pushed his hand away. “Look, I’m sorry if I keep waking you,” he said, a little hotly, “but I would really appreciate it if you stopped waking me up. It doesn’t help. You’re the big bad witcher with the super stamina and meditation and shit – if it’s so bothersome, just go collect your werewolf head and leave me alone. It’s not like you need as much sleep as I do.”

“Why would you want to stay in a nightmare?”

“Awake or asleep, the memories are always there.” Jaskier rolled over again, determined to get at least a few more hours of rest.


	8. Chapter 8

Lambert didn’t wake him up again, but he was still there in the morning. Jaskier sat up, scrubbing his eyes and shoving lank, sweat soaked hair off his face. Lambert tossed him a chunk of bread and some cheese. Jaskier managed to catch them but stared at the witcher suspiciously. Lambert rolled his eyes. “It’s just some food, not a trap. Consider it thanks for helping with my back last night. I’ll heal a bit better for the stitches.”

Jaskier sniffed the food before taking a bite and chewing slowly, but it just smelled and tasted like bread and cheese. It got rid of the left over memory-taste in his mouth, which was nice. He finished it and washed it down with some water. “Thanks. Are you taking Roach?”

“No. And I wanted to ask you something.” He stopped and fiddled with his damaged armor, turning the leather over and over in his hands for a minute. “Would you come with me? Your help with my back was…good. And you kept your head and didn’t freak out about the werewolf. I could teach you to use those daggers,” he offered. “If you wanted. But it would be…nice, to have help when I get hurt. I can’t always find a healer willing to help when the injuries are bad enough.”

“Bullshit.” Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “What do you really want?”

“I want you to come with me. At least until you find something or somewhere that you actually want to be. It would help me and be safer for you.”

“I don’t need or want your pity.”

“I don’t know how to pity anyone.” He dropped the armor and rounded the remains of the fire and squatted down next to Jaskier. His eyes were serious, and he reached out to take one of Jaskier’s hands. “If you hold a dagger like you did last night, you’ll lose it damned fast in an actual fight. I’m not going to tell you that things get better. How the fuck would I know? I’ve never been where you are. I’ve never loved anything, which means I’ve never lost anything that I loved. But you’ve made the decision to keep living, so I want to help you do that. Because you survived something that would have sent most people insane, and here you are. Suffering, yes, but you’re still going. I can’t help but admire that. You can say no of course,” he added. “I’m not going to force you.”

Jaskier pulled his hand back and studied him. “I’m not your charity case.”

“No. Charity isn’t my thing.”

“And you’re not going to try some stupid shit to make me talk to Geralt again.”

“My brother is an idiot and I don’t blame you for not wanting to see him. You’ll talk to him if you want to, and not before. Ain’t my place to decide that.”

Jaskier chewed his lip as he thought over the idea. He had no way of knowing how much bullshit Lambert was spewing, if any. He didn’t know any other witchers besides Geralt, and whatever else he said, Geralt tended to have a giant soft spot for the hard luck cases. Jaskier had suffered more than enough humiliation, he couldn’t bear to have anyone’s pity. But…Lambert didn’t strike him as the pitying type. Compassionate, maybe. He would not kick someone already down, but he would not treat them with pity. What harm in trying? He could always walk away. “Okay. I’ll help, however I can, and you’ll teach me how to use a dagger properly. But I swear to the gods, I will walk if I even think you’re fucking with me, I don’t care if you’re hurt or whatever at the time.”

“Fair enough. We leave when you’re ready. I have payment to collect, and then I have heard of a cockatrice down Razdan way.”

“Never seen a cockatrice before. Can they kill with their gaze, like the legends say?”

Lambert snorted as he straightened up. “No, that’s utter shite. But they’re fast and vicious, and you gotta watch the beak and tail.”

“Huh. Ever wonder how that kind of stupid story gets around?” Jaskier rolled to his feet and kicked dirt over the smoldering remains of the fire.

“People are stupid,” Lambert pointed out. “They’ll believe most anything.”

Well, he was a better conversationalist than Geralt – at least he did more than grunt! Jaskier walked into the trees for a quick piss, then went to the pond. He stripped down and waded in to rinse off the stink of last night’s sweat, doing his best to ignore the weight of eyes on his scarred body. The wash probably didn’t help as much as he’d intended, since his clothes would still smell of fear sweat, but it was the best he could do. Lambert would have to get used to it.

They mounted up and Jaskier set Roach to following Lambert’s mare. They picked their way through the trees to where Lambert had killed the werewolf the night before. Jaskier wanted to wrinkle his nose at the smell when they found it, but instead swung down and held the bag open for the head that Lambert cut off. He tied it to the back of the man’s saddle and then climbed back up onto Roach. He thought she was appreciative of not having the smelly thing tied onto her, and there was a bit of perkiness to her steps as they moved on.

They took it to a decent sized village. It seemed fairly prosperous, with the homes in good repair and a tavern that didn’t stink of piss from twenty paces. Lambert was met with relief while Jaskier was met with odd looks. He ducked his head to hide his strange eyes and kept his mouth shut.

Their path turned south as they headed towards the supposed cockatrice. Lambert was a quiet travel companion. As he was in the lead, he would call back any obstacles on the path, like a hole that could hurt Roach’s leg or a low hanging branch for Jaskier to duck, but otherwise stayed quiet. The warnings weren’t actually needed, but they were a curtesy that Jaskier appreciated. Geralt had not ever offered anything similar, and he didn’t know if this was something Jaskier would have gotten regardless, or if it was due to his history. It was too soon to tell, he didn’t know Lambert well enough.

When they camped, Jaskier was quick to pull his own weight. They would hobble the horses so they could graze, and then he immediately began working to dig a fire pit and find wood. While Lambert vanished into the trees with a small crossbow, Jaskier went in the opposite direction to set his snares. Lambert was successful, returning with a hare and four squirrels. Jaskier’s snares stayed empty. The man seemed frustrated when Jaskier refused to eat the food, but didn’t push. Jaskier would earn his own food or he would go hungry – no charity.

His lessons with the dagger started their first night. Jaskier had expected some brusque, basic instruction, and while Lambert wasn’t verbose, he also wasn’t particularly rude or gruff about any of it. And he was patient when he corrected Jaskier’s hold and his stance, and when his fingers just couldn’t maintain the grip quite right, went through all of the knives they had between them to find one with a handle thick enough that his twisted fingers could maintain the proper hold on. It happened to be one of his own, but he refused to take any coin for it – just an even trade for one of the others Jaskier had pilfered.

“The handles can be modified with some leather. Save your coin for that,” he was told. The drills they went through once he could keep a decent grip on the thing were basic, and Jaskier felt an echo of silly when he kept going through the same motions over and over, but nothing in Lambert’s manner indicated he was fucking with him, so he kept it up for the two hours that Lambert deemed sufficient for the first lesson.

Jaskier didn’t feel more confident in its use, but his muscles were a little sore from the unaccustomed exercise, so he supposed the drills were doing something. It didn’t help him sleep at all, but he had positioned himself downwind from the witcher and Lambert didn’t wake him, which he took to mean his scent didn’t pull him from his sleep again.

Their next few days were much the same, save that Jaskier had better luck with his snares so that he didn’t go hungry.

When they finally reached their destination, Jaskier was actually feeling reasonably sure that if someone attacked him, he would have a chance at actually fending them off. But training was put aside as they road into the small farming settlement just north of Razdan. Jaskier kept his head ducked a bit so people wouldn’t notice his strange eyes and let Lambert question people about the thing that had been killing livestock and, at last count, three people. He was able to narrow down the likely lair for the beast to an abandoned farm, whose owner had been old with no children. When he’d died, no one had moved in to claim it, as the fields had been over farmed years ago and would have to lie fallow for years more before anything worthwhile would grow.

Lambert tried to leave him behind, to which Jaskier flat out refused. “I won’t go all the way to the farm with you, if that’s a problem. But I won’t stay here.”

“It’s not safe,” Lambert said, frustrated.

“Neither are strangers. I’ll move on, if this is a problem,” Jaskier offered.

“No, fuck. Fine. But you stop and wait where I tell you, and you stay on Roach. Cockatrice are fast – _really_ fast. If she bolts, let her!” Jaskier nodded his agreement and they set out following the directions they’d been given.

Lambert left him in the middle of the wide, sad field attached to the farm. Even the grass was patchy and sparse, but more importantly, there was a nice clear field of vision all the way around. If the cockatrice was not holed up in the house, barn, or cellar, then it was out hunting and Jaskier and Roach would see it coming and have time to run.

Jaskier waited when Lambert strode on ahead, leaving his mare behind with Jaskier to pick at the poor feed on offer. It was broad daylight, to better their chances at finding the thing asleep – they hunted at night by preference. He could make out Lambert clearly enough, it wasn’t like he was miles away, which was good. If something went wrong, he’d know about it when it happened, instead of having to wait hour and hours until he failed to return to an inn or campsite.

Lambert checked the barn first and then moved towards the house when there was apparently nothing there. Jaskier didn’t see him again for almost a quarter hour, until a door down to the cellar slammed open up out of the ground, and Lambert backed out, sword flashing as he blocked strikes from the creature’s wings and tail.

The cockatrice was the size of a horse, not including its wings and tail. It moved like lightening, trying to knock Lambert over with its wings, or sweep his legs out from under him with its tail. When they were clear of the cellar doors, and both had room to move, Lambert was less hampered and could parry and thrust with greater speed and precision. But then, the open space meant the thing could take flight, and dive at him from above.

Jaskier had not known about the wings. He probably should have asked more questions about it.

The horses were uneasy, Roach shifting under him while Lambert’s mare wanted to pace in a wide circle. Jaskier caught at her reins to keep her still. He didn’t want her movement to draw the beast’s attention or distract Lambert.

The fight was going fairly well, he thought. Lambert hadn’t taken a single hit that he’d seen, with the witcher dodging or using _aard_ to push the thing back before it could connect. He was fast on his feet and agile, but the damned thing kept to the air and didn’t stay in reach long enough for a proper blow. And Lambert had not taken one of the potions that would enhance his stamina or reflexes, so he _would_ tire out after a while. Jaskier bit his lip, considering. Then he reached for the crossbow and the mare’s saddle and loaded it. He left Lambert’s mare where she was and urged Roach to get closer at a walk, as sedate as they could manage it. No fast or sudden movements to draw the eye and make Lambert have to dive between them….He got within range without it seeming to notice him and then just waited. It had been years since he’d fired a crossbow, but it was so big, it would be difficult to miss. And there was a second or two when it gained its desired height, where it seemed to freeze in the air with its wings open. They were thin, the membrane didn’t seem too tough, and anyway he was pretty sure the bolt was tipped with silver. He would try, just once. If he missed, fine. He wouldn’t try again, and he’d pay for a new bolt with the last of his coin. Geralt would have yelled at him just for thinking about it, but Geralt wasn’t here, and Lambert….well, if Lambert yelled at him, he’d be no worse off than he’d been when they’d met.

He waited and aimed, and just as the cockatrice turned and hovered in the air to ready for its next dive, he fired. The result was _spectacular_. The bolt went through the wing in a shower of blood, it screamed fit to break his eardrums, and fell to the ground, spinning as it went, its good wing not enough to keep it aloft. Lambert didn’t waste time looking over at him and met it where it fell, cutting off its head before it could get its feet under it. _Then_ he looked over, but Jaskier couldn’t judge his expression. When he waved him over, Jaskier nudged Roach into motion. He reached the other man and wordlessly handed the crossbow over. He _wasn’t_ afraid – he wasn’t. His idea had worked, and if Lambert was going to be angry, then – whatever. He would know better than to have anything to do with any witcher.

“Good shot. Help me pull the quills, they’re worth a pretty coin.”

That was it.

A little bemused, Jaskier swung down off Roach and followed Lambert’s direction as they divested the creature of its spikey feathers. “Venom can be worth something too, but there’s nothing good made with it, so I leave it to rot in the sacs,” Lambert said casually as they pulled and bundled the feathers. “Anyone tells you it’s a cure for something, they’re lying. Feathers make good pens though, tough. Last for ages and hard to break.”

Jaskier held one up and examined it, and yeah, he could see it. It would hold ink well, and give a nice fine line. If he still had his songbook….

He put the feather in the bundle with the rest and kept pulling. When they were done, Lambert turned and whistled, and his mare trotted over, tossing her head a bit when the smell of the beast’s blood hit her nose. Lambert bagged the head and tied off the bundle of feathers to tuck into his saddlebags. “Head for proof, but we’ll stop at a city to sell the feathers. We’ll get more money for them.”

“You’ll get more money for them. They aren’t mine,” Jaskier pointed out.

Lambert stabbed a finger at him. “You helped with the kill, you helped with the work, you get part of the payment.”

“You could have killed it on your own, don’t pretend otherwise. I just shortened the fight is all,” Jaskier argued. “And I used one of your own silver tipped bolts to do it.” He gestured around. “It’s gone. It’ll have to be replaced. Silver isn’t cheap.”

“Then we don’t split it halves. You still helped, you still get part of the payout. Thirty percent instead of fifty.”

“Ten.”

Lambert pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have never had someone argue for a smaller payment in my life. Twenty-five.”

“Ten.”

“Twenty.”

“Five,” Jaskier said flatly.

Lambert held up his hands. “Ten! Fuck, why are you so against taking honest payment for honest help?”

“Because it wasn’t that much, it could have gone wrong, and it could have just distracted the damned thing and made the situation worse.”

“Maybe. And maybe I could have tripped on the stairs and gotten impaled by its damned beak, which would have left you running from a pissed off cockatrice. Maybe doesn’t matter, only what is. Besides, I actually did notice you grabbing the crossbow, I **do** pay attention, you know. My only worry was you trying for the body instead of the wing, but you didn’t. Mount up, we don’t need anything else here.”

Jaskier climbed back up on Roach and followed him back to the village. The payment from the village was small, and Jaskier flat out refused any of it. He would take a portion from the sale of the feathers only. Lambert seemed frustrated with him, but he wouldn’t budge.

They left the village, aimed south towards Razdan, which was a large enough city to get a good price for the feathers. Lambert was also out of rumors to check, so would look for contracts there as well. Jaskier made it to within sight of the gate and froze. He wasn’t sure why. He had managed to make it into the cities in the north when he was looking for Borch, but faced with the gate and the crowds of people that were on the other side of it, he couldn’t make himself go in. Lambert didn’t notice for a few paces, but then turned his mare around and grunted a question. Jaskier shook his head. “You go. I’ll just….” He waved a hand back the way they’d come. “There was a clearing off the road a ways back. I’ll wait there for you.”

Lambert leaned on the pommel and gave him a thoughtful look. “Alright. Is there anything you’d like me to buy with your ten percent? Bread, cheese, a cloak?”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, it’s cheaper in villages for that stuff, there’s always a big price jump in cities. Just get what you need.” He tilted his head. “I’ll wait three days,” he added. “Get yourself a room at an inn, and a nice bath or something. Drink some ale, whatever. If you’re not back in three days, I’ll assume you had an urgent contract and didn’t have time to fetch me. No worries, hmm?”

“You think I’d cheat –“

“That’s not what I said. Sometimes contracts are urgent. That’s all. I’ll be fine, I’m used to camping.” He didn’t wait for anything else, and turned Roach around to head back the way they’d come. When he found the clearing he’d spotted, he got down and let Roach roam to graze where she pleased. He got his back up against a wide tree and sank to the ground, head in his hands. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d frozen like that, but just the idea of all of those people around him, so many eyes watching him, turned his stomach and made his palms sweat. It wasn’t likely that there was someone there that would know him – how could they? He didn’t even look the same as he had, didn’t dress the same, his voice was a ruin compared to what it had been. _But what if they did_. What if one of them knew who he was and wanted to hurt him? An ex-lover, someone else with a grudge against Geralt, one of Pravid’s men that hadn’t been there when Geralt had slaughtered his way through the house and taken him out? or just some psycho who saw an easy mark when they walked by. He was marked now, literally marked on his face as a victim, and apparently there were men in the world that enjoyed hurting others just for the fun of it.

No, small towns were okay. Strangers always stuck out in villages and small towns, everyone knew everyone else. And you could always tell who the ones that liked to make trouble were, just by the way their neighbors looked at them. Yes, small towns were best for him, even if the people would stare even more, less accepting of things like weird hair and eyes and scars. It would probably annoy Lambert pretty quickly, but he wasn’t expecting the man to stick around for very long. Not really, whatever he said about appreciating the help when he was injured. Jaskier would take what he could get, be grateful for the knife lessons, and move on.

When the shaking in his hands stopped, he got up and started to brush Roach. The poor thing was missing out on a stable because of him and deserved all the pampering to make up for it.

He was so angry when Lambert joined him before midnight, he couldn’t even speak at first. He shoved the small, jingling pouch away and scrambled to his feet. “Why the fuck are you here? There better be a contract you have to get to.”

“No contract. Was I supposed to curl up in a nice cozy inn while you sleep on the ground?” he asked mildly.

“ **Yes**. Why wouldn’t you? This is **my** issue, not yours, I don’t need you sacrificing shit to babysit me, I’m fine! Why can’t you just –“

“Stop. Sit down, Jaskier. Please.” Lambert dropped to the ground and glared until Jaskier sat as well. “When I first started on the Path,” he began quietly, “everyone was afraid of me. I didn’t think I looked scary then. No scars, no nothing. But as soon as they noticed the double swords, or the pendant, or the eyes, they were afraid. It didn’t matter how calm I stayed or how quietly I spoke, it never helped. It never got better. I was run out of towns, I’ve had food thrown at me, been spit on, been attacked just for being a witcher. Except for one man. He was old, and scarred, and he wasn’t afraid to meet my eyes. One look from him and the villagers there backed off, and he even invited me to sleep in his house. He was…” Lambert seemed to search for words. “Interesting,” he finally came up with. “He cared about people, but he wouldn’t put up with bullshit. I stayed with him for a month. We talked. He was a good listener, and he explained that folks were almost always afraid of the things they didn’t understand, and someone who looks like a man but can do things a man can’t was something they didn’t understand, and so they were afraid. I asked him why he wasn’t, and he told me. He’d been a soldier that fought in a war, just some stupid thing between two rich assholes who wanted _more_ and were willing to have men fight and die for it. He’d been captured, and tortured, and put through things no man should be. He told me what it was like for him, during and after, and after that he wasn’t going to fear anyone.”

“Jaskier, you’re in the after. You spent your whole life walking through the world, not blindly, because I know you saw death walking with Geralt. But now you’ve seen and survived the absolute depths that men can sink to. Death is…sometimes death is the easier option, the _kinder_ option, than what some men will do to another. I don’t know that I wouldn’t be afraid to walk into a city of thousands if I had survived what you did, and I don’t even know the specifics. But I saw the scars. I noticed the missing toenails. I’ve smelled your nightmares. So if you can’t yet walk into a city, that’s fine. But for now at least, we are partners, and I will not leave my partner to sleep alone in the woods while I enjoy a bed, because I would not be enjoying the bed anyway.”

“And how long does that last? Honestly, Lambert. How long do you put up with me? I won’t be a help on every contract. You don’t get hurt every time, and it’s not practical for me to follow every time. And even if it were, it’s not like I’ll get a lucky shot with the crossbow in every time. The burden isn’t equal. If I am keeping you from a decent sleep, a hot bath, a nice little tumble in a brothel…how long does that last?”

“As long as you want it to.” Lambert glared again when Jaskier scoffed. “I’m serious. No, you won’t be able to help on every hunt. But do you have any idea how valuable I have found your help to be already? My back healed much faster with your stitches. That fight was much faster with your crossbow shot. And just having company on the road, and the fact that you’re not afraid of me? Other than that old man, you are the only human I have ever met who does not smell like fear, not even a little bit – outside of your nightmares,” he corrected. “When you’re awake and aware of me, you’re not afraid. You’re completely fearless when I’m teaching you to use a knife, even when I have a blade in my hand. That’s never happened before.”

Jaskier looked away and shrugged. “You’re a witcher, not a monster.”

“That’s not a distinction most people bother with.”

“Most people are stupid.”

“Yes.”

“I _can’t_ be a burden. Do you understand that? I can’t be that again. Everyone I have ever known, ever tried to call friend, has found me to be a burden, even when I could pay my own share. I can’t even do that right now, I have no usable skills. I am not who I was, and whoever I am now, I can’t – so much of me is gone. After everything, I can’t still be that. Do you understand? I can barely stand to just – just _exist_ , I can’t take one more humiliation. I just can’t.”

“You won’t. You’ll help with what you know, and learn more as we go. I’ll probably fuck up before you will, you realize. I’ve never had a partner before – well, sometimes Eskel, but we trained together and he’s a moron, so I don’t think it counts.”

Jaskier felt a very tiny smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Geralt is an idiot, Eskel is a moron – are there any clever witchers?”

Lambert scratched thoughtfully at his beard. “Well me, obviously. And I suppose Vesemir isn’t too bad. A couple others can get their boots on the correct feet at least.”

“Such a rousing endorsement. It’s no wonder you all work alone.”

“I don’t – not anymore. Come, let’s at least build a fire. The nights are getting cooler.” Lambert stood and reached down to haul Jaskier to his feet. His hand darted out and shoved something down the front of Jaskier’s shirt as soon as Jaskier was up. “And your part of the payment,” he added in a tone that said he wasn’t going to argue about it. Jaskier held up his hands, giving in. The purse wasn’t so heavy that he thought Lambert had put in more than agreed, so there was no point.


	9. Chapter 9

They hit the road again the next morning. Lambert aimed them southeast, down through Sodden and headed roughly towards Toussaint. Jaskier didn’t ask where they were going, since he knew witchers didn’t really work that way. If there had been no contracts in Razdan, then they were just riding in a direction until they found one. When they found a village late that afternoon, Lambert gave him a quick questioning look, but when Jaskier just road straight in, said nothing. There were no contracts there either, but there was a small market. Lambert quite pointedly walked through until they found a stall selling garments, and Jaskier somewhat resignedly joined him in examining the cloaks. He didn’t fancy freezing, truthfully, but it wasn’t that cold yet and planning that far ahead seemed like a commitment he wasn’t ready to make. But it would be foolish not to at least look and see if there was something worth buying, and if he didn’t, it would only upset the witcher. And Jaskier was keen to avoid another confrontation any time soon.

Rather grudgingly, he accepted the cloak Lambert found and checked it out. It wasn’t fancy, nothing at all like he would once have considered, but these days fashion wasn’t a concern for him. It was long and brown and made of thick wool, and the hood would keep his head warm and hide his odd hair. The village was close enough to Razdan and Armeria that the prices should have been closer to what one would pay in a city, but Sodden was still recovering from the repelled invasion by NIlfgaard. Jaskier could afford it and still have money left over. He paid and tried not to care about the little grunt of approval from Lambert. Or the way he relaxed when Jaskier indulged in the purchase of a loaf of bread and a tiny jar of jam.

When they made camp that night, Lambert stopped him on his way to set his snares. “You’re hit and miss with those. If you don’t want to share what I kill, that’s fine. But let me at least show you how to find the best place to put them to better your odds.” With the last of the fading sunlight, he walked Jaskier in a wide circle around their campsite and pointed out the small details that he’d never noticed before – droppings, nibbled vegetation, and even a barely noticeable burrow. When he had them set, Lambert vanished into the trees to hunt his own dinner while Jaskier returned to their fire and broke off a hunk of the bread and smeared some of the jam on it. The sweet flavor burst over his tongue and he ate it slowly, savoring the flavor. He had not had jam since before…. It had been a while.

Lambert returned with three rabbits, one of which had a broken neck from one of the snares. “Snare kills are good for selling the pelts. Watch.” He worked nice and slow to show Jaskier the best way to skin the animal in order to preserve the hide for sale later, then let him do the other two for practice. “We don’t have any salt, so we can’t really keep these. But as we’re coming into winter, they’ll start getting their winter coats. That’s when they’re most valuable. Since you’re doing trap kills anyway for food, it makes sense to keep the pelts.”

Jaskier nodded. “Yeah, thanks. I always just-“ he waved a hand. “Got the bits off so I could cook them.”

“There have been lean contract seasons. It’s helpful to find other ways to keep coin in your pocket.” He efficiently set the three carcasses up over the flames to cook. After they’d washed their hands in the little stream where they’d watered the horses, they moved on to their evening lesson.

Lambert was a good teacher all the way around. Jaskier had picked up some practical skills over the years traveling with Geralt, but there was a difference between watching and picking things up (which he was good at, he was, he had been keeping himself fed on the road with and without Geralt for some time) and having someone actually showing and explaining things. Jaskier learned some basic tracking skills, brushed up on using the crossbow so he wouldn’t have to rely totally on his target being as big as the cockatrice. He learned to make a basic shelter for him and Roach in the event of nasty weather.

Along the way, he managed to make himself useful. He had learned many of the ingredients that Geralt used to make his potions, and while Lambert was out hunting, he scoured the area around their campsites to collect what he could find. Lambert had been surprised to be presented with bundles of useful herbs, and then had turned around and started teaching him what to do with them. To his surprise, some of the potions that resulted were ones even he could take, as long as they were diluted. Which gave him an idea.

He had picked up some stuff over the years, like how to clean and stitch wounds. And he’d known what herbs and other plants Geralt needed to make his potions, since he’d tagged along even on such mundane tasks. It was enough to make him useful post hunt to Lambert. But when they stopped for a contract and Jaskier stayed behind at the inn to wait for the witcher’s return, he sought out the village healer to learn more. After he’d sworn up and down that he wasn’t going to set up shop himself anywhere nearby, she had cheerfully given him a few lessons. He did the same in the next village, and the one after that.

And then Lambert had actually gotten hurt battling a kikimora, and he’d been able to put his improved skills to use in setting his broken arm and stitching up a long gash on his leg with improved stitches. He’d smeared a salve over the wound when he was finished that was supposed to reduce scarring, then wrapped the bandages neatly around.

Lambert flexed the fingers of his broken arm, tightly bound and braced against his chest and smiled. “See? Stitching with my off hand would have been a bitch and a half, and wouldn’t have been half so neat.” He caught Jaskier’s hand in his good one and held it up. “They’re not as stiff as they used to be,” he noted.

“I’m doing more with them. Finer work.” Jaskier held both hands up and flexed his fingers. “They’ll never be what they were, though.”

“Probably not. But you’re still doing good things with them.”

“I guess I am.” He packed up the healing supplies, then favored Lambert with a long, steady look. “When do you head for Kaer Morhen?”

“I won’t be, not this winter. We’re too far south for me to make it before the snows close the pass. There’s another contract near Ft. Tuzla, that should take about a week to get to. And then, well, we’ll have to hole up for the winter. There’s a place in the Black Forest that I’ve used before. We’ll want to buy extra oats for Roach, and it’ll be a little cramped, but it should do.” He squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder. “Not deliberate, Jask. It’s just the way the contracts worked out this year.”

“Alright. But you’re not taking this contract until your arm is healed.”

“Should only take a couple weeks. Don’t worry.”

Except that Jaskier did worry. It was a very odd sensation. Travel with Lambert was unlike traveling with anyone else had ever been. With Geralt, he had always felt like an annoying fly, constantly buzzing around and dodging swipes meant to make him leave. When he’d joined caravans or troupes, he had always been placed at the back of the party and felt like an afterthought. While Lambert was undoubtedly in the lead between them, he still consulted with Jaskier on path or direction, never failed to warn of obstacles on the road, and never made him feel like a burden, an annoyance, or an afterthought. What Jaskier didn’t know, Lambert taught him, and then let him get on with it without hovering or criticizing. He didn’t treat him like he thought Jaskier was broken, and somehow, at least for a few minutes at a time, that seemed to lead to Jaskier forgetting that he actually was. And so, although he had told himself to keep things as business, to not get attached because eventually Lambert would go his own way for whatever reason, he found himself stupidly attached to the other man. It wasn’t what he felt for Geralt, but it was growing to be just as strong.

He thought, maybe, it was true friendship. Wouldn’t that be something? To finally have a real friend, after everything, at his age?

The next contract turned out to be drowners. Lambert was willing to kill them with his arm still in a sling. Jaskier glared at him until he consented to waiting the extra week, and they simply warned everyone to stay away from the water until he could do so. The villagers were surprisingly understanding of the situation and put them up in an entire house that was vacant (thankfully not through any great tragedy, but simply because the old woman who had lived there after her husband died had also died, peacefully in her sleep) which actually helped Jaskier manage to sleep while inside the borders of the village. Their few ventures into sleeping in an inn had been tense affairs, since Jaskier still couldn’t sleep inside an inn, even with Lambert between him and the door. He had tried to fake it, but damned witcher senses had picked up his racing heartbeat and the scent of terror from the second the door was closed behind them. But since Lambert couldn’t sleep with him in that state, and refused to get his own room, their attempts had been few and far between.

But the house, while small, was no inn room. It still smelled faintly of lilacs, which the woman had apparently loved and secreted dried bundles of in every nook and cranny she could cram them into. Jaskier left the bed for Lambert and curled up on the floor by the hearth, with a lilac scented pillow under his head. His nightmares still gripped him, but they did every night anyway, and he was at least able to get to sleep.

When his arm had finished healing, Lambert headed out to take care of the drowners and make the village’s water source safe. While he was gone, Jaskier dragged out the old wooden tub and began to heat water. When Lambert returned a couple hours later, carrying the heads of four drowners, he was soaked and covered with mud, though uninjured. Jaskier made him strip to the skin outside the house, dumped a bucket of warm water over his head to get rid of the worst of the mud, then shooed him into the tub. Lambert let out an appreciative groan as he sank into the water, then heated it further with _igni_ so that it was absolutely steaming. “Thanks for this, Jask,” he called, eyes closed. His knees stuck up out of the water, but he seemed to find it relaxing all the same.

“You’re welcome. Ugh, did you roll in mud? How did you get so filthy?” Jaskier bent to scrubbing the leather armor with a brush.

“Sort of. I got tackled.”

Jaskier shook his head and kept scrubbing. By the time Lambert dragged himself from the water, Jaskier had his armor clean and had started on his clothes. Lambert dressed in his clean set, then sat next to the fire to oil the leather so that it stayed supple and didn’t dry and shrink. “Did you collect payment?” Jaskier asked as he laid out the wet clothes by the hearth to dry.

“Not yet. I chose to take payment in goods rather than money. They’re collecting what I requested and we’ll take it with us when we leave in the morning.”

“Oh? What are we taking with us?”

“Grain for the horses for the winter, some grain and dried fruit for us, bedroll and extra blankets. We’ll need to supplement with hunting, but it should be enough to last us the winter. The place I plan to stay is about three days hike away from Red Port if we run short, but I doubt we will. There’s good trapping around there, too.” He pointed a finger at Jaskier. “You’ve gotten damned good at skinning. Might be a good time to try tanning – making our own leather for repairs wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he stripped down to take his own quick bath. Lambert obligingly reheated the water for him. “I understand the process, it’s just…rather rude. First we kill it, then we rub it in its own brains! Seems a little insulting somehow.”

“We can apologize while we do it,” Lambert said dryly.

Jaskier quirked his lips at him and bent to scrubbing himself down. When he got out to dress, Lambert hauled the still full tub out and dumped the dirty water. Once his own clothing was washed and laid out to dry, he settled next to Lambert by the hearth to sharpen his knives while the witcher finished with his armor. It was a nice way to end the day, and for once, Jaskier’s mind stayed relatively empty. Peaceful.

They went to collect Lambert’s payment the next morning. Jaskier hung back, letting Lambert deal with taking possession of the goods and stowing them on the horses for the journey. He kept scanning the street around them, as he generally did, alert to anyone paying him too much attention. A few folks walking by noticed him and gave his oddly patterned hair and the scar on his face a second look, but there was no undue interest. What drew his attention, though, was a man down the street yanking a cringing dog along by a rope tied around its neck and swearing. It was a little thing, the type of terrier used to hunt small animals in their burrows. Jaskier had never seen one of the usually spirited dogs cringe as this one did, and without conscious thought, his fingers closed around the hilt of one of his knives.

Something alerted Lambert and Jaskier saw him turn away from the horses to check on him, then follow his line of sight. Before the witcher said anything, the man aimed a kick at the little dog that made it yelp in a high, piercing tone, and Jaskier’s control broke. He strode down the street and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, aided by the knife in his hand. “Fuck you,” he spat. “What the fuck did a dog ever do to deserve being treated like that? You miserable piece of shit, why don’t you try that on someone your own size, huh?”

The dazed man climbed back to his feet, spitting blood and a tooth onto the ground. “What the fuck? It’s a worthless fucking dog, you freak. Damned thing just cowers and won’t hunt! Who do you think you are? It’s my dog, I’ll train it how I see fit.”

Jaskier lifted his chin. “I’m taking him.”

“Like fuck you are! It’s my dog!”

Jaskier shifted his stance and raised the knife. “You don’t deserve to be in charge of a potted plant.” He felt rather than heard Lambert come up behind him. Lambert didn’t say anything, but then, he really didn’t have to. Faced with both of them, the man threw up his hands in defeat.

“Fine! Take the miserable thing – I hope he gives you fleas,” he snapped. He backed off several steps then turned and hurried away.

Jaskier turned and bent over the little thing. It whimpered when Jaskier ran his hands down its sides, feeling the heat and swelling of bruising and broken bones. There were no fleas visible, but he could see a skin condition had started and would need to be treated before it turned into a massive infection. It tucked its tail protectively over its belly when he picked it up, but licked at Jaskier’s face in spite of its pain and terror. He met Lambert’s gaze almost defiantly, but the witcher just squeezed his shoulder and nodded towards the horses.

“We’ll want to make a poultice for those ribs before we set out. Let’s get that rope off his neck.” Jaskier held the dog still while Lambert cut the cruelly tight rope off and left it in the street.

Eyes watched them from all around, burning into the back of Jaskier’s neck as they mixed a poultice right then and there that would provide a little pain relief and help with swelling, then wrapped the little dog’s ribs to keep them from shifting. With the worst of his injuries tended to, Jaskier wrapped the dog in one of the new blankets and climbed up onto Roach. They rode out of town without anyone saying one word to them. When they were well away, Jaskier finally broke. “You’re pissed. I get it, but I couldn’t just let him keep on hurting –“

“I’m not pissed,” Lambert interrupted. “I could not have interfered like that. I’ve seen the same shit far too often, but if I try to stop it, I literally get stoned. You did what I could not but have wanted to do countless times. I kind of wish you’d hit the bastard a little harder, though. He only lost one tooth.”

“Everybody’s a critic,” Jaskier mumbled. He scratched the little dog behind the ears. Even through the blanket, he could feel it trembling. “I’ll never understand that cruelty.”

“Neither will I. I’m not sure I want to understand it.”

It was more than a week’s ride to the Black Forest. It would have been shorter except for how the horses were laden with so much extra weight. But the slow pace they had to keep was a benefit for the little dog on Jaskier’s lap, who would have been bounced far too much if they’d gone faster. The first night they all camped together, Jaskier forwent laying out snares and accepted one of the fat rabbits that Lambert brought back from his hunt. He split it with the dog, and once they both had full bellies, he set about making an antiseptic rinse for the skin condition the little guy had. Jaskier cooed gently at him, knowing the rinse stung a bit as he poured it over the patches where hair had begun to fall out, then fed him a little more cooked rabbit as reward for holding still. “I don’t get how anyone could be so mean to you,” he huffed as he received a few more grateful licks. “You’re sweet as anything.”

Lambert reached over and offered his own morsel, eagerly accepted. “He does seem affectionate. Might not ever be a good hunting dog, not the way he was treated.”

“So what? Even if he doesn’t hunt, he’s still worth hanging onto. I bet he’ll at least bark like anything if someone comes around.”

“I bet you’re right.”

No more was said on the subject.


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier named the dog Sugar, since he really was incredibly sweet. He tolerated the stinging rinse every day, and the changing of the poultice, without the slightest nip of protest. During the day, he rode with Jaskier, wrapped in his blanket and pressed against Jaskier’s stomach. When they camped, he ate neatly from Jaskier’s fingers, and slept once again pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. He quickly learned his name and his ears pricked up every time one of them said it, tail wagging in shallow, uncertain sweeps as he slowly learned that he wasn’t going to be hurt.

Their pace had to slow even more once they reached the forest, ever wary of uncertain terrain that could hurt the horses. Jaskier was growing ever more curious about this mystery wintering spot of Lambert’s. He didn’t know what kind of shelter could be found in a forest that would last them through an entire winter, with only a relatively small amount of extra supplies to carry them, but he trusted Lambert’s judgement.

When they finally got there, Jaskier at first wasn’t impressed. There was a hill and a little valley, and a lovely stream that tumbled down in a small waterfall, with everything covered by trees and plants. It was beautiful, certainly. The perfect backdrop to a romantic painting, even. But while the fresh water and grazing was great for the horses, it wasn’t exactly his idea of an ideal wintering over spot.

Lambert snorted at whatever look was on his face and dismounted, then began divesting his mare of the extra baggage. Jaskier followed suit, and they soon had the horses down to just their harnesses. Lambert let them wander while hoisting quite a bit of the baggage and jerking his head towards the hillside. Mystified, Jaskier followed him in between a pair of large old oak trees…and into the side of the hill. The opening was concealed very well by shrubbery, and only knowing it was there would get you in reliably. The natural cave would be just wide enough for the horses to be brought in, until it widened out about twenty feet in and down into a rather large chamber. Lambert lit a couple of candles, which would give him plenty of light and at least allow Jaskier to navigate without tripping on his own feet. They put down the bulk of their baggage in the initial chamber, then Lambert took on of the candles and guided Jaskier into yet another ‘hallway’ that led to another chamber. Oddly, it seemed to be warming up the deeper and further down they went.

The second chamber was easily the same size as the first. Against one wall, a more or less permanent cooking pit had been dug, and a very narrow hole had been burrowed in the roof. Jaskier tried to squint up it, but it was far too dark to make out more than a few inches of rock.

“It goes all the way to the surface, via a few branches, to dissipate the smoke,” Lambert told him. “We’ll only need the fire for cooking, not warmth.”

“I noticed it was pretty warm in here. What causes that? We should see snow any day now, how is it so warm in here?”

“That’s the best part. C’mon.”

Lambert took him down into a third and final chamber. The smell of sulfur hung very faintly in the air, and the little candle gamely lit up a smaller chamber that was warm and humid. Jaskier blinked and blinked again, then managed an actual smile. “A hot spring,” he breathed. He walked up to the edge and knelt, carefully testing the water in the small pool. It was definitely hot to the touch, but even his normal human body could tolerate it quite well. He put Sugar down on the ground and watched the little terrier sniff the water, then sneeze. “This is great. Do the caves stay this warm all winter long?”

“The first chamber can get pretty nippy when the wind is right, but there’s a chunk of canvas we use to block it when it’s that bad. We’ll leave the horses to roam except when the weather is too foul – it’s a pain to wash the piss smell out when we have to pen them in. And we have to bring in water from the stream outside – the water in the hot spring isn’t safe to drink. Something about the minerals will give even a witcher the trots, apparently.”

“Noted,” Jaskier said dryly. “Do we have more light? I’m not sure the candles alone will be enough for me.”

“There’s plenty. Even if the last person here didn’t restock, I brought more with our supplies.” Lambert led him back into the middle chamber and they got to work settling in. Jaskier had a proper bedroll, finally, and a thick blanket to use, although with the heat generated by the hot spring, he wasn’t sure how badly he would need it. There were a few things already on hand that they hadn’t had to bring, like some tools and cookware, so it didn’t really take long to get unpacked and settled in.

Sugar was more mobile, and while they were busy, spent some time sniffing around the chamber, little tail held perfectly still as he concentrated on what his nose was telling him. When he’d given the entire room a couple of very thorough inspections, his tail started wagging and he wiggled around Jaskier’s feet until he picked him up again. “So what’s next?”

“Hunting for me, snares for you,” Lambert answered. “We’ve tools enough to build a frame for larger hide. I expect the first couple will turn out pretty shit – they usually do when someone is new to it. But we also have all winter to get some decent hides. I’ll be checking around for good firewood too.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Sugar accompanied Jaskier back out of the caves and into the surrounding forest as he scouted for the best places to set up his snares. He marked a couple of fallen trees to come back to later with the axe, then went back to check on the horses. They were grazing quite happily and were fairly complacent as he checked them over for any ticks or tangles. By the time he finished, Lambert was returning with a young deer slung over his shoulders.

Jaskier took on the task of butchering and skinning the deer while Lambert quickly built a drying frame for when it was time to stretch the hide. His stomach churned a little as he removed the brain and used it to get the water ready for the hide, but where once he would certainly have thrown up over the unpleasant task and smells, he was now used to much worse and was able to ignore it. It was harder work than he’d expected, removing the hair from the hide, and he was sweaty and his hands ached by the time he was done. Lambert had finished before him and had taken the meat back into the cave to start cooking. Jaskier nodded at him on his own way through, heading right for the hot spring.

When he’d bathed and changed, they sat down to eat, and Jaskier found himself leaning rather tiredly against the cave wall by the time he finished his stew. “Get some sleep,” Lambert advised. “I’ll settle the horses for the night.”

“Okay.” Jaskier stretched out on his bedroll and pulled the new, heavy blanket up over his frame. Sugar turned a couple of circles, then tucked up against his stomach in his usual spot. The embers of the cook fire glowed, just barely illuminating the room. His eyelids grew heavy, and he let his full stomach and the warmth of his bed pull him down into slumber.

The nightmares were always there. In the daytime, if he had no distractions, and every single night. But in the cave, with the mineral smell of stone in his nose, they were a hundred times worse. Jaskier woke with a bitten off scream, wild eyes searching frantically, one hand aching fiercely. Lambert’s hands clamped to his upper arms as the witcher restrained his wild struggles. “Jaskier, wake up! Jaskier, it’s just me, you’re safe. Okay? You need to wake up, you’re scaring Sugar.”

Jaskier fumbled and got a grip on Lambert’s shirt. He was panting and covered in sweat, and he didn’t know why his hand hurt so much. “What the fuck – Lambert? Lambert, what –“

“It’s okay, you’re safe. It’s just us, Jaskier. Do you need light?”

“Yes! I can’t – why is it so bad?” He started to shiver, feeling a bone deep cold that was nothing more than a ghost. He was not naked and chained and starving in a dungeon anymore, the cave was warm enough – he shouldn’t be freezing. He whimpered when Lambert pulled away and curled around Sugar, who climbed into his lap and started licking his face almost frantically. Light flared in the room as Lambert threw more wood on the cook fire and relit it, then lit a dozen candles so that as many shadows as possible were chased away. He was swift to return once that chore was done, bringing a candle with him.

Without a shred of hesitance, Lambert sat down behind him and hauled him into his lap. He rubbed his hands briskly over Jaskier’s arms, trying to bring heat back to terror chilled limbs. “What were you dreaming?” he asked as Jaskier shivered and shook in his lap.

“Just – just the same shit! They were just r-ripping out a couple toenails, a-and pouring lemon juice on – it wasn’t even one of the really _bad_ ones, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“That sounds plenty bad to me all by itself. What’s different tonight?”

“Nothing! Nothing is different – the bedroll, the blanket?”

“The cave, Jaskier. We’re closed in. You can’t even sleep in an inn, why the fuck did I think you’d be able to sleep in a cave?”

“I like the cave! And I can’t sleep in inns because they _took_ me from an inn. They came in the night while I was sleeping, strangled me until I lost consciousness, and I woke up chained in that fucking dungeon with some sadistic fuck already whipping me.”

Lambert growled deep in his chest. “If they weren’t all already dead, I would hunt them down myself,” he hissed.

Jaskier laughed a little hysterically. “Would it help? Because it doesn’t help me – it doesn’t matter that they’re dead, they’ll always be in my head. I will always know what it’s like to be beaten, strangled, whipped. To have my nails ripped out, each finger broken and then broken again when they started to heal. To scream so loud I can feel it when my throat shreds. To be drowned in piss-water and force fed rotten food, and then force fed my own vomit. To be burned and reshaped and _broken_ , and it’s always, always there – so why was it so much worse tonight?!”

“Maybe – scent? You can’t smell the woods out here, the grass and trees. Scent is a powerful memory stimulus. There are smells that trigger certain memories for me, as clear as if they were happening in the moment.”

“F-fuck me. What I wouldn’t give for them to have burned out my nose, then.”

“Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Do you trust me?” Lambert asked. It was a patient question, and Jaskier got the feeling that he wouldn’t be offended or upset if Jaskier said no. But it wasn’t a difficult question, even if the answer surprised even Jaskier himself.

“Yes.”

“I want to try something. Just tell me if it doesn’t work.” Lambert rearranged them so that they were laying down again on the bedroll. Jaskier was facing him, face tucked into his neck, and the blanket was pulled most of the way over them with a small window to let in light. Jaskier waited to feel restrained or trapped, but he had never been held in this position by his torturers. His hands and feet were free to move where they wanted to. Sugar was pressed in close, panting in his ear, and his dog breath wafted over Jaskier’s face. Under his nose, Lambert’s skin smelled like sweat and horse and leather, but it wasn’t the rank stench of bodies that didn’t wash enough, and there was no stink of blood or piss or shit mixed in. It was just dog and man smells, with even the mineral scent of the cave blocked out. Jaskier shifted a little bit so that his ear was pressed to Lambert’s chest, and he could hear the slower than human thump of his heartbeat.

The shivering and shaking eased gradually. His muscles went lax. His breath became even and deep, rather than frantic and shallow. The terror chill left him and he was warm, almost uncomfortably so. “Why does my hand hurt?” he asked, voice almost slurring in the aftermath.

“You punched the wall. I didn’t want to touch it to check, but it might be broken. Mind if I look now?” Jaskier wordlessly wormed it out of the blankets and held it up above Lambert’s head. Gentle fingers carefully probed as Jaskier flexed his fingers. “No breaks, just bruised as fuck.”

“Hmm.” Reluctantly, Jaskier started to pull back but froze when Lambert’s arms tightened around him again. “What?”

“Unless you _want_ me to move, I suggest we stay just like this. I’m comfortable, so don’t think to do it on my account,” Lambert said matter-of-factly.

“Do you mean to snuggle me the rest of the night? You’re not my personal stuffed toy, Lambert.”

“No. I’m your partner. And, if you’ve no objection, your friend. Besides, who says it’s only for your benefit? I may not be human, Jaskier, but I started out that way. I still like the same things. Including holding someone else. If it makes you feel safe enough to relax, and I enjoy holding someone I didn’t have to pay to be there, what’s the harm?”

Jaskier didn’t have an answer for that. And it _did_ feel good. To be held, touched, without violence. Without hands that ignored his words and did as they pleased regardless. Lambert had _always_ respected his boundaries, and Jaskier was certain that he wouldn’t have to even say anything and Lambert would let him go if he was uncomfortable. It would be even faster if he did say so. But… “You can’t sleep when you can smell my nightmares.”

“I’ve learned your scent well enough to block it out. It stays at a certain intensity, normally. That’s what woke me tonight, actually – it was much stronger than usual. I’m willing to try if you are.” Jaskier just nodded and shut his eyes. He wasn’t sure he would even get back to sleep, but he felt safer right where he was than he had in _months_.

He surprised himself by waking up, presumably the next morning. He couldn’t say he felt well rested, but he was closer to it than he had been since Pravid. He was still tucked up against Lambert, half sprawled on him really, with the witcher’s arms heavy weights around him. There was something like embarrassment hovering at the edge of everything, but he ignored it. He would apologize if Lambert seemed upset, but since the witcher had literally asked for it, he wasn’t going to borrow trouble.

“You slept better,” Lambert said.

“Yes, I – thank you. Did you sleep?”

“Once you dropped off, yes. Scent seems to be a trigger. We can work around that.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. There was no hesitation at all in Lambert’s words, no sense that he was fed up or feeling put upon or having to deal with a problem that wasn’t his own. He wasn’t even slightly exasperated. “Why? Is this – are you making up for Geralt somehow? I don’t get it,” he confessed. “No one wanted to be my friend when I was whole. Why would you want to now, when I’m this broken mess who can’t even sleep through the night on my own?”

“Geralt can get fucked – it’s not my job to make up for anything that idiot has done or said. I am your friend because I like you. You are unbelievably strong, Jaskier, even if you don’t see yourself that way. And you’re still _kind_. Do you realize that? That very first night, you could have run off while I was hunting the werewolf. You stayed. You could have let me deal with the injuries on my own – but you helped me, even before I knew what had happened and was still suspicious of you. And you didn’t do it with the expectation of getting any sort of favor from me, you just did it because I could use the hand. You constantly took the worst spots to sleep so that I wouldn’t be bothered by the smell of your nightmares. I’ve seen you glare at humans who were rude to me, I’ve seen you leave flowers for children, and I’ve seen you sneaking sugar to my horse. After all you went through, your kindness and generosity is still there, when no one would blame you for turning your back on people. I can’t undo what was done to you, although I would if I could. But I can be your friend now, if you’ll let me. It isn’t a hardship or chore.”

Jaskier had to sit up so he could see Lambert’s face. Lambert just stared at him with a calm, open expression. Offering with no strings. “I…okay. Friends,” he agreed, voice thick. “Just…when you need a break, could you just tell me that? Don’t just fuck off while I’m sleeping or something.”

Lambert didn’t make any promises that he wouldn’t need a break or get tired of him, maybe knowing that Jaskier wasn’t in a place he would be able to believe that. He just nodded in agreement to Jaskier’s request.

Jaskier felt a little off balance all day, like gravity was malfunctioning or something. He worked on the hide but kept getting distracted by the idea that he had an actual friend – someone willing to straight out say they were his friend. Granted, it was in private, but even that was more than he’d had before. Even when they’d been alone on the road, Geralt would never say that word, or even imply that word, about their relationship. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

Lambert disappeared midmorning to go do something in the forest. Jaskier wasn’t sure what, but with the hide stretched on the drying frame, he was without anything in particular to do so he just sat on some rocks by the stream and carefully combed out Sugar’s hair. The little dog quivered in pleasure. His ribs were almost healed, and the skin condition had cleared up to allow his own hair to start to regrow on those spots. He readily flopped over to expose his belly at the merest hint that Jaskier might wish to pet it, and Jaskier couldn’t help the way he identified so strongly with the little pooch. Wasn’t he basically doing the same thing with Lambert? A hint of kindness, and he flung himself over to expose all his weakest spots? But as much as part of him felt utterly pathetic for doing it, he couldn’t find it in himself to think he was _wrong_. It was the same part of him that had placed his safety utterly in Geralt’s hands, and even though the witcher had emotionally eviscerated him, he had always, always protected him and saved his life. That same part of him was now telling him to trust Lambert. It was saying the man was genuine.

Honestly, he already trusted him. Lambert had been blunt and straightforward with him from the first. He had respected Jaskier’s boundaries, had never treated him like he was stupid, and had worked to make a partnership between them as much as Jaskier had. There was a respect there that was pretty damned refreshing, and Jaskier could put up with a hell of a lot to keep that – but there really wasn’t a whole lot that had to be ‘put up with’. Lambert didn’t even snore. Probably the man’s worst quality was his refusal to name his horse, but Jaskier had, at least in the privacy of his own mind, taken care of that. Daisy was a fine mare, steady and patient, who showed obvious affection for her rider.

When Lambert returned late in the afternoon, he had a wide frame in his arms that he maneuvered into the cave. Jaskier followed to see what he was doing with it and found him setting it up roughly in the middle of the center cave where they slept. Then he piled both their bedrolls and all their blankets on it, making a decent looking bed. It would be just wide enough for them both to fit. Lambert looked over at him when he was done. “Cedar,” he said, like that explained everything.

Jaskier cocked his head, eyeing the bed again. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. If the mineral scent of damp stone was really a trigger for something more like a flashback than an ordinary nightmare, then the strong smell of cedar wood should certainly help block it out. It wasn’t like he had a nose like a witcher – it was easy enough to overwhelm his sense of smell with one or two strong odors. “Should help,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

Lambert looked pleased. “Let’s eat.”

Just like that, everything was settled. They ate dinner, then went to have a bath in the hot spring. It was big enough for both of them to stretch out in. Sugar flopped down to nap beside Jaskier’s head, tired from his busy day of sniffing things and being petted. When it was time to try to sleep, Jaskier felt only a little awkward climbing into the bed alongside Lambert. But Lambert made it easy enough, just climbing in and laying on his side so there was plenty of room for Jaskier to do the same. They found a good fit, with Lambert playing big spoon with Jaskier’s head pillowed on his arm and Lambert’s other arm a heavy weight over his middle. The smell of cedar was definitely strong enough to block out the smell of stone, and there was enough room for his hands and feet to shift around as needed so he didn’t feel restrained at all. Sugar seemed to approve of the new arrangement as well, worming under the blankets and claiming a new spot for himself tucked under Jaskier’s chin. Between the cedar, the dog breath, and the smell of Lambert’s skin under his nose, he relaxed completely and slept.

He still dreamed, of course. He wasn’t sure anything outside of magic could get rid of his dreams entirely. But he wasn’t sent into the same state of utter terror that he had been that first night, and pressed so close together, Lambert had only to shift a little to remind Jaskier’s sleeping mind of his presence and ease away the unpleasant dreams.

Waking up feeling well rested was…a revelation. He had been so used to the constant state of exhaustion that he had existed in that its absence was dizzying. He sat up and gave Lambert an anxious look. “How did you sleep?” he demanded.

“Rather well, actually. Should have thought of putting a bedframe in here ages ago.” The thinnest hint of a smile curled his lips. “And you’re very cuddly, did you know?” he teased.

Jaskier felt the tips of his ears heat up and was thankful for the long, unkempt hair that hid it. No doubt Lambert could smell the embarrassment, he didn’t have to provide the visual, too. “Oh, shush. It was all Sugar’s fault – he was so comfortable, I didn’t have the heart to make him move.”

Sugar panted up at them from the tangle of blankets, utterly unbothered about being blamed for anything at all.


	11. Chapter 11

The first snows showed up within a few days. The white frosting everything added an additional beauty to the spot, so that Jaskier half expected some fae creature to dance out of the trees. The charm would wear off pretty quickly, he knew, but at least at the beginning of winter he would enjoy it while he could.

There was little enough to do during the winter months. Lambert hunted successfully enough to keep him supplied with hides to practice on, and his snares were fruitful enough to add a bit of variety to their diet, as well as offering him plenty of smaller hides to play with. He ruined the first few skins he worked on, but the quality improved with each one he attempted, until he started producing usable leather. The smaller rabbit hides were a little trickier, with having to keep the hair on, but he got the knack of that, too. In the evenings, he worked with some of the shittier leather scraps until he had learned to stitch it neatly enough, and then worked to make them both a set of mittens and slippers lined with rabbit fur. They weren’t as stylish as what could be found in the cities in the shops, but they were sturdy and well made, and as the temperature dropped, wonderfully warm.

When Lambert wasn’t hunting, he worked on carving. Jaskier was delighted to see the little figurines that came to life under his hands and small knives. He created a whole farm’s worth of animals in various poses, dogs and cats and horses, hawks and eagles, even frogs and snakes. The little slivers of wood that he shaved off made great tinder, and the figures would fetch a nice price when spring came. And rather than sit in brooding silence, Lambert seemed to like to talk. He spoke of his training and his hunts and people he’d met along the way. Jaskier was a little slower to respond. Almost his entire history was wrapped up in music – hearing it, learning it, creating it, playing it, searching out experiences to turn into it. Still, as much as he ached with the grief for what he had lost, many of his memories were truly good ones. And as he haltingly shared his own stories, giving back the secrets and intimacies that Lambert had shared, the grief….changed. It wasn’t lessened, but it did change. The bitterness slowly bled away, leaving behind an ache that didn’t gut him to feel. He could not sing, not well. And his hands, though stronger and more nimble than he’d thought they could ever get, were not nimble enough to play the lute. But his songs still existed in the world. No injury could change that. And he could still compose, if he wished, and perhaps just pass on the new music to other bards as they came across them. Maybe. Someday. When it hurt less to think of someone else playing one of his songs for the first time ever, debuting it before a crowd when it should be him doing so.

By midwinter, he felt as close to Lambert as he ever had to anyone else in his life. Close enough to finally confide what had been done to him. The pain, the humiliation, the despair and hopelessness. Lambert listened with a judgement free attentiveness, and never made him feel lesser for the tears that he shed as he spoke, nor for the confessions of how often he had begged for reprieve. Telling someone the whole of it somehow made the memories easier to bear.

With that gradual bleeding off of poison, other memories were easier to share as well. He could talk of his time spent with Geralt with a little clearer vision, and even of the time spent with the man in that house as Geralt bullied him into surviving each day. He was able to acknowledge, finally, that perhaps Geralt had spoken truthfully to him about his view of their past. Lambert agreed that more than likely Geralt had cared deeply for him all along, and had been just too emotionally constipated to accept it in himself, but wanted it too much to truly tell him to back off. It didn’t excuse anything. It didn’t make all the remembered hurts go away. And it didn’t make Geralt’s decision to bind their lives together against Jaskier’s will alright. But it explained it, and Jaskier could at least acknowledge that there might be a future where he could bear to be around Geralt again.

Jaskier started to dread the spring. He felt safe in the caves. He felt safe and accepted, even _wanted_ , with Lambert. He didn’t know how he would react to seeing other people again. He didn’t know if he was ready to enter a city again. There were moments, when thoughts of the future intruded, that he wanted to beg Lambert to take the hunting season off – just for a year. Just a year to stay where they were in the caves, away from people and monsters and the uncertainty that was life. Those moments shamed him. He didn’t want to be the type of person that would hide away, and Lambert certainly wasn’t. Lambert was committed to his Path, to killing the monsters that preyed on people, and he couldn’t in good conscience ask him to stop, not even for a little while. But as spring began to draw closer, he found himself clinging to his friend at night, and later into the mornings. Lambert said nothing for a while, and just let Jaskier cling and held him tightly.

It was Jaskier himself that broke the silence one morning, determinedly keeping his eyes shut and his fingers laced with Lambert’s. “We’ll be going soon, won’t we,” he whispered.

“The winter is almost over,” Lambert acknowledged. “Monsters will be waking from hibernation soon.”

“I suppose it’s not practical to take the bed with us.”

Lambert gave him a chuckle. “No, not the whole thing. But we’ll take the bedrolls. No more sleeping on the bare ground for you.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to stay at inns.”

Lambert shrugged. “Okay. When you’re ready, you’re ready. Until then, camping is just fine.”

Jaskier sighed. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“There’s enough in this world that’s hard. Why make anything else harder than it needs to be?”

“There you go being logical again.”

“I know, it’s a terrible habit.” He felt Lambert shrug. “I’m too old to change my ways. You’ll just have to put up with it.”

“I suppose, if I must.” They rose and got started with their day, although the rhythm was a little different. Having acknowledged the change of the seasons and their imminent departure, their eyes moved more towards gathering what would go with them. Jaskier had another hide to finish, to add to the respectable stack that Lambert assured him would bring them decent coin. He had refined his sewing skills and had a number of fur lined sets of mittens and slippers that would fetch even better coin – although he had traded out his earliest efforts for himself and Lambert for the best of what he’d made.

Which was good, because the two very plain sets of clothing that he’d been making do with were in need of replacement.

It was still a few weeks before they left, and once they did, they left the caves ready to be occupied again for the next witcher who came along and found himself too far from his home school to make it back for the winter. Jaskier kind of hoped it would be him and Lambert, but one never knew how the contracts would play out.

They headed for Red Port first. They had wares to sell, and frankly food to buy – venison and rabbit were perfectly good, but without other things to supplement, got tiresome after a while. Jaskier pulled Roach to a halt when they got within view of the city gates, bracing himself. His stomach _was_ in knots, so he wasn’t sure he’d manage an overnight, but. To sell their stuff, maybe have a meal that had even old vegetables in it or even just a bit of porridge with honey? He thought he could manage that much. He nodded at Lambert and kept Roach close to Daisy as they entered. Lambert kept his eyes down and his medallion tucked. Jaskier had the hood of his cloak up to hide his odd hair and eyes, and they blended into the crowd of people just going on about their business.

Lambert had done some dealing there before, and knew where the best places to sell their winter’s efforts would be. The leathersmith eyed Jaskier’s offerings with critical but ultimately satisfied eyes and forked over a pleasing amount of gold, holding back a small amount when Jaskier picked out new boots. Lambert earned his own fair share for his carvings, although he had gifted Jaskier his favorite – a small wolf carved in pale wood, caught in mid-howl.

It wasn’t subtle, but then, Jaskier never claimed to be subtle.

With their wares sold, they moved on to stocking up on necessities. Jaskier bought a couple new sets of clothing. A visit to an apothecary supplied a few potions they hadn’t had the ingredients to make, mostly ordinary healing potions for Jaskier himself, since he couldn’t make use of the witcher strength ones. They snagged a few jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, and packed it all away securely. Jaskier had about reached his limit of so many people, so they stopped only once more for a quick meal and a mug of ale each, then headed out onto the road.

Lambert, as the one actively looking for contracts, chose the direction and aimed them due north, up into Lyria. Camping in early spring wasn’t great, but they had hit the roads before the earliest trade caravans so the mud wasn’t badly churned up. And Lambert made it clear the first night by layering the bedrolls that their sleeping arrangements wouldn’t change, so even with the occasionally still frigid wind that blew up as winter reluctantly receded, he still slept pretty well. Sugar seemed to enjoy traveling, now that he was healed and allowed to run alongside the horses. When he tired, it was nothing at all to hop down and scoop him back up to give his tiny legs a rest. The little dog’s confidence had grown by leaps and bounds, and while he didn’t actually bark – Jaskier suspected a trauma there, which made him want to go back and punch that asshole all over again – he _had_ taken to growling whenever any people drew too near to them. Jaskier encouraged it, as did Lambert, with little bits of dried venison, so that he became quite enthusiastic about the whole process.

The first contract they found was ghouls. A sickness had plagued the village they came across, and several people had died over the winter from it, mostly the very old and the very young. A not uncommon occurrence, however tragic, and unfortunately, the abundance of fresh corpses had attracted the ghouls. Lambert was confident that there were no signs of an alghoul to make the task more difficult, so Jaskier just set up his usual medical supplies, ordered a bath to be readied, and waited patiently. It was an unpleasant sort of contract, rather smelly, and as long as Lambert didn’t get bitten, they should easily be on their way.

Lambert did not get bitten, but he did take a nasty claw down the thigh, and was quite grumpy about it. “Six of the fucking things,” he groused. “I hate ghouls, they stink to hell and gone.”

Jaskier helped him strip off his armor and gestured at the tub. “Give it a blast to heat it up and get in. I’ll get to scrubbing this.” Even to his nose, the filth spattered on the armor smelled rank, and neither would sleep well until they got the smell out. He trotted out and down the stairs to grab a couple buckets of water, nodding pleasantly enough at the innkeeper. He’d left his cloak in the room so his hair was on display, which garnered a couple of odd looks but no comments. When he got back, Lambert was as lounged in the tub as he could be, given that it wasn’t long enough for his legs. Jaskier paused beside the tub to eye the long claw mark and judged it shallow enough to not need stitches. Satisfied, he got to work on the armor. By the time he was finished cleaning it, Lambert had soaked himself out and was climbing out of the tub. Jaskier paused long enough to wind a bandage around his leg to keep it clean and protected until it healed, then bent to oiling the leather of the armor so it didn’t crack.

Sugar started growling at the door and Jaskier jumped. He was on his feet with knife in hand before Lambert had finished crossing the room to the door. It was just the innkeeper, bringing up two bowls of mutton stew, which Lambert accepted easily before allowing the man and a couple assistants to remove the tub and dirty water. Jaskier and his knife drew a few wary looks, but he wasn’t in a place where he could put it away, even to ease others’ fear. _Lambert_ didn’t mind, so Jaskier wasn’t going to beat himself up over it.

The stew was pretty good though, all things considered.

His sleep that night was uneasy, even squished up between Lambert and the wall, but he _did_ sleep. Jaskier counted the whole venture a win when they left town early the next morning.

After that, it was a flurry of contracts. Every little village they ran across had some sort of hunt, most of them of the mundane variety, but all put coin in their pockets. Spring was when beasts emerged from hibernation, and they emerged hungry – the monsters were no exception. They carved a swath through Lyria, with even Jaskier finding a bit of work here and there as something of a traveling healer, where they found places that had none of their own. He hadn’t intended to sell his skills in that area, had learned them mostly to benefit first Geralt and then Lambert, but it was a need that he could fill, and it earned a bit of coin, so he wouldn’t turn his nose up at the work.

Then, as spring was finally edging into summer, Jaskier was yanked out of a fairly deep sleep with his heart racing, and the usual night sounds of insects and night creatures rustling in the brush somehow incredibly loud in his ears. The light cast by the low burning fire was almost bright enough to hurt his eyes. He clutched at Lambert, fingers clawing at his shoulders as he gasped. “Lambert, what – what the fuck!” Sugar jumped up and started dancing around, whimpering in confusion.

“Look at me, Jaskier. No, hold still, let me see your eyes.” Lambert gripped the sides of his face firmly as he looked around wildly, panicked. “Shit. Did you drink one of my potions?”

“What? No! What the fuck, why would I?”

“I didn’t think so. Fuck, I think it’s the bond. Geralt.” He pulled out one of his daggers and let Jaskier see his reflection in the polished metal. His eyes had gone inky black, and the veins in his face stuck out, black against his pale skin. Like a witcher who’d taken one of their enhancing potions. “The dragon said the bond would grow stronger, even at a distance. I think Geralt is hunting something that called for the boost.” He rolled to his feet and went to their bags, returning with both his and Jaskier’s healing potions. Jaskier eyed the bottle of White Honey as he clutched at his chest over his racing heart. “Can you stand it?” Lambert demanded, following his gaze. “If you take that, it will ease the effects, but it probably will for Geralt, too.”

Jaskier panted, feeling like he was running a race while he sat still. “I can take it. Fuck, I hope he kills whatever it is quickly.”

“It’s like that for us all, the first few times. You’re not getting the full effect, thankfully.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because if you were, your heart would have burst. They are _not_ meant for unmutated humans.” Lambert sat down opposite him and took his hands, placing them on his chest again. “Breathe with me. You have to steady yourself as much as you can. Just breathe with me. Slow count in,” he instructed, steady and unflappable. Jaskier did his best to match his breathing, and counted his slow heartbeats under his hand. It helped – it felt rather less like he was in a full blown panic, and he could tune out the unusually loud night sounds and the odd clarity of his vision. Of course, then a random line of pain sliced across his back, ruining his almost-calm. He gasped, arching his back, as it felt like a fresh whip mark had just scored his skin.

Lambert immediately grabbed him and bent him forward and yanked up his shirt. “Fuck! Did he not even bother with fucking armor?” he snarled. He snagged the bag of potions and uncorked a salve meant to slow bleeding. It also, blessedly, helped to numb the pain, although Jaskier had definitely had worse and could easily stand it. Lambert had no sooner gotten his back dealt with than a bruise bloomed on his cheek, sending Lambert into fits of cussing as he dabbed bruise salve on it. What felt like teeth seemed to grip his forearm, and Lambert was so angry that he couldn’t even swear at that point, he just treated and bandaged that injury as well.

After about an hour, whatever Geralt had been doing seemed to be over. He must have downed his own White Honey, as the effects of the potions abruptly seemed to just drain out of him, and leaned against Lambert tiredly, feeling as wrung out as anything had ever left him. “Holy fuck, that wasn’t fun. How the hell do you witchers put up with that?”

“We’re literally built for it, Jask. That fucker didn’t think _anything_ through, did he? Never even considered the future when he put that bond on you, and never stopped to think that more than healing and strange eyes would be shared. Damn him.”

“It’s alright, Lambert. It is,” he insisted when Lambert gave him a skeptical look. “No, he didn’t think things through, but. It kept me alive. And I got to meet you, didn’t I?”

Lambert looked faintly embarrassed, but the look faded quickly. “He can’t take jobs like he used to, not the way it all echoes back onto you. He should _know_ that.”

“Why would he? Up until now, the only bit of sharing we’ve done was that initial healing. As far as I can tell, we’ve shared nothing else. You can’t tell me he didn’t hunt all last summer and fall, and the big idiot is always getting at least bruised. None of those came through. And Yennefer didn’t know much about the spell at all. I’m the only one that looked deeper into the effects, and it’s not like I sent a message to let him know what to expect.” He patted Lambert’s chest soothingly. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “I know he’s generally an inconsiderate ass, but I think he gets a pass on this one.”

Lambert just shook his head and started to arrange him back on the bedroll. Sugar finally calmed down as well and spent a few minutes licking at his face, cleaning the sweat off his skin. Lambert laid down with him again, acting as a full body pillow so that Jaskier’s back and injured arm were off the ground. Jaskier was drained enough to fall asleep quickly. But the line of pain down his back, not wholly numbed by the salve, was reminder enough to bring the nightmares back stronger than they usually were since they’d started their new sleeping arrangements. It was not the best night’s sleep for any of them.

In the morning, however, they were both pleased to see that the injuries were almost healed. The bruise that had darkened his jaw had gone to pale yellow, as though it were weeks old, and the teeth marks were well scabbed over. Lambert reported that what had to have been a claw mark of some kind down his back was in the same condition, nearly healed and looking like it wouldn’t add to Jaskier’s collection of scars. Other than being tired, he was able to ride mostly comfortably.


	12. Chapter 12

Nothing else happened for a while. While they were both a bit tense for a few days in the aftermath, they were able to eventually relax and let it go. Not entirely, of course – Lambert insisted that he keep the potions, salves, and bandages for regular humans well stocked and fresh. But the fact was, witchers didn’t use their potions except for the truly difficult hunts, and those weren’t terribly common. Wargs, drowners, ghouls, and their like made up the bulk of witcher contracts. Horrible enough in their own ways, and deadly enough to normal humans, but more in the way of a chore for a witcher than something truly dangerous.

So the next thing that happened didn’t involve injury or potions, but dreams. Jaskier didn’t even realize it at first. He still dreamed almost nightly about his own torture, but they had worn thin and had less effect on him while he was curled up with Lambert and Sugar. And other, more ordinary dreams mixed in with the usual fare with ever increasing frequency. So dreaming of a feast, with expensively dressed people dancing, wasn’t exactly unusual.

The unusual part came when he saw _himself_ , dressed in a blue doublet, playing and singing with a wide smile on his face. Somehow, the light in the room seemed to follow him, constantly highlighting him with a soft, warm glow from behind. It was odd, as he’d never seen himself in dreams before, always experiencing them from behind his own eyes. Coupled with a strange sense of longing, it had him waking up really confused. He could only shrug when Lambert asked about it – a weird dream was better than a bad one, after all, so what could he really say?

It happened again a few nights later. He again dreamed that he was seeing himself, this time leaning against a log somewhere, lute in hand, obviously composing while laughing at himself as he fumbled with different words. Except he recognized the song, and could remember composing it while on the road with Geralt – and with Geralt not visible in the dream, it made sense that he was seeing through Geralt’s eyes.

“I think I’m sharing Geralt’s dreams,” he announced as soon as he woke up.

Lambert grunted and pushed himself into a sitting position. He scrubbed his face with one hand. “What’s that like, then? A lot of fighting monsters and drinking ale?”

“Well…no, actually. It’s – okay, maybe they’re not his dreams, but I’m pretty sure they are. I’m dreaming _me_. The past. I’m seeing myself like I’m part of the crowd watching me, and I’ve never dreamed like that before.”

Lambert nodded slowly. “That is pretty strange. I’ve never seen myself in dreams, I’ve only ever looked out of my own eyes. Are you… _aware_ in the dreams?”

“Kind of? It’s odd during the dream, but I don’t realize how or why until I wake up.”

“Might be something to work towards, then. Being aware. If you’re aware in your own dream, you can change it.”

“How the hell do you make yourself aware in your own dream? If you’re aware, it isn’t a dream.”

“Mental focus?” Lambert shrugged. “We can work on meditation, see if that helps. If you want.”

“I’ll think about it.”

They packed up and got started with their day as normal, and didn’t discuss it again. It took a few more days, and another dream, before Jaskier decided to try it. If he could get some sort of control in the dream, then maybe he could make Geralt aware of what was happening and they could figure out a way to stop it. He wasn’t ready to feel what Geralt was feeling. He wasn’t ready to _long_ for something (someone) and he wasn’t ready, would probably never be ready, for the connection to go the other direction. Geralt didn’t need to see his dreams. He didn’t need to get that vicarious experience of torture. And he sure as fuck didn’t need to experience what it was like to beg for a scrap of mercy when every last scrap of dignity and pride had been ground into the filth he was left to wallow in.

Meditation wasn’t a cure all. He couldn’t lock is brain down so that Geralt couldn’t get in. He didn’t even _know_ if Geralt was getting in, or if the dreams were so far one way. But as he learned to focus his mind, that focus did translate, gradually, over into the dreams. The sensation of watching himself was _just_ odd enough to alert his sleeping mind. As his focus improved, he was able to start interacting with the dreams, which generally meant interacting with himself as Geralt saw him.

The first time he managed anything, he was once again watching ‘himself’ perform, this time in a tavern somewhere. He was able to stand up and approach ‘himself’ and watched as a wide, brilliant smile crossed ‘his’ face. Then that same smile crash to an expression of utter grief when he took the lute from ‘his’ hands and smashed it. “Stop this,” he ordered with Geralt’s voice.

Something like pure shock went through him and he was awake and blinking at the cotton of Lambert’s shirt under his face. Sugar let out a little whine and nosed along his hairline until he reached up to pet him. “Okay?” Lambert asked.

“I think so. I managed to get a little control, and I think it woke him up?”

Lambert patted his back. “Okay.”

Jaskier put his head back down and went to sleep.

A few days later, he dreamed again. One thing Geralt was _not_ was stupid. As soon as Jaskier realized he was in Geralt’s dream again and went off script, he felt the world around them change. No tavern, no camp site, no banquet. Just a room with a mirror, and he/they looked at himself/themselves, and said, “Jaskier? Is that you?” Jaskier nodded their head. “What am I supposed to stop?”

“The dreams – stop dreaming of me, Geralt.”

They laughed, a strange hopeless sort of noise. “Can you control your dreams, Jaskier?”

“I’m learning to control yours at least. Stop pulling me in, then.”

“I’m not – not on purpose, anyway. I can ask Yen if there’s a way to block you out, but. If it’s the bond, we already know there’s no way to break it. I asked Yen to look for one.”

“I know. It’s permanent, unless we want our souls shredded. Just – _try_ , Geralt. I’m not ready for you yet.”

“Yet?” Their face took on an expression of naked hope that was quickly wiped clean. “I’m sorry, ignore that. You owe me nothing, I deserve nothing. I’ll try,” he promised.

Jaskier _willed_ himself to wake up and did so with a full body jerk that woke both Lambert and Sugar. He pulled the little dog in closer and just shook his head at Lambert.

There was a break in the dreams after that, but it lasted only a couple of weeks. He looked up at himself from a bathtub, smelled the stink of monster guts, and shoved a wave of water at his dream self. Almost instantly the room dissolved back into that plain room with the mirror, and he/they were looking at Geralt’s face again.

“I’m sorry – I’ve been sleeping in the day where I can, meditating when I can’t. There was a hunt.” Their head shook. “It doesn’t matter.”

“At least you didn’t get hurt on this one,” Jaskier sighed.

Their gaze sharpened. “Have you shared my injuries? Fuck, I hoped distance would dull that.”

“Distance dulls nothing. Didn’t you notice when the toxicity faded sooner than it should have?”

“I wasn’t conscious for a while after that one. I’m sorry, I’ll be more cautious.”

Jaskier shook their head. “Don’t be a fool – you’ve never been reckless. You can hardly stop being what you are. Just – I’m not ready for you, Geralt.”

“I don’t expect you to be. I’ve…gotten some of your dreams. I thought they were just – nightmares. My guilt and imagination. Until we were able to speak.” Their hand reached out to touch the mirror. “You should not have had to suffer _any_ of that, and it was my fault. And then I kept making you stay, kept making you live with it, do things you didn’t want to do because **I** would miss you. And then the bond on top of all of it. You were right to leave, and you would be right to never forgive me.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Jaskier could not help but feel what Geralt felt. And there was true remorse there, guilt and shame and _love_. All the things he had wanted Geralt to feel, but it brought him zero comfort to know that he did. He couldn’t be comforted or vindicated by it knowing that Geralt had witnessed, had vicariously _experienced_ his torture. That knowledge brought him a shame that overwhelmed everything else. “You were never supposed to know any of that,” Jaskier whispered. Their hand shot out, breaking the glass.

He woke with Lambert’s arms around him. He could hardly breathe. “He saw,” he gasped. “He saw, he was in my dreams, he knows!”

Lambert’s arms tightened around him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

He had told Lambert about it all, but it was so vastly different for Geralt to have experienced it. He could say ‘they whipped me until I passed out, and then whipped me more when I woke, and laughed when I pissed myself’ or ‘I was so desperate for water that I drank from the bucket that I know they pissed in’ but the words could never hope to convey how much it had hurt. How unbelievably humiliated he had felt. How _unmade_ he had been, not even a person any longer, just a groveling, cringing _thing_. Knowing that Geralt knew just how pathetically he had groveled and debased himself shoved him right back into the heart of those feelings, covered him with such a sense of shame that, for the first time in a long time, he found his watering gaze falling on one of his knives. There was very little that he would not do to escape that feeling.

It was entirely possible that if Lambert had not been right there with him, holding him, he might actually have tried to cut the squirming, vile sensation out of his stomach.

As it was, once the initial storm of reaction passed, he found himself…shutting down. He could not look at Lambert, barely even at Sugar. He moved his bedroll, for the first time since the beginning of winter, away from Lambert’s. He wasn’t really sleeping anyway, because the thought of Geralt seeing and feeling any of it again was more than he could bear. Entering villages became impossible. It felt too much like all anyone had to do was look at him to know what had been done to him, how he had debased himself in the futile hope of a scrap of mercy that never came. Eating became almost impossible, and he choked down what little he did simply because Lambert insisted. He followed where Lambert led, because he knew if he didn’t, he would curl up in a ditch somewhere and give up, and there was still that small, stubborn kernel at his core that could not bear to have Geralt die with him.

Days bled into nights bled into days. He would catch brief snatches of sleep, enough to keep him from descending into hallucinations or something, half hour or an hour at a crack, but nothing like enough. He knew Lambert was worried for him, hell he knew _Sugar_ was worried for him, but the knowledge wasn’t enough to pull him out of it. It was all distant, unimportant in the face of the nearly overwhelming self disgust that had become his life.

It was entirely possible that he would have just wasted away like that until even Lambert felt compelled to bring him to the Sisters of Melitele to care for, save for some truly terrible luck.

Jaskier wasn’t even certain where they were. They were on a mountain, with a track so bad that Lambert was leading the horses a step at a time. Jaskier did not know why they were there, where they had come from, nor where they were heading to. He stared down at the ground with vacant eyes and let Lambert lead Roach where he wished, while his own horse was tied behind her. Lambert stopped suddenly, and swore, and started urging Roach backwards. The process was not made easier for him having to try to wrangle both horses back without room on the narrow track for either horse to turn around properly. Something made Sugar bark – the first Jaskier had heard come from the little dog since he’d spotted him in that village. That was enough to draw Jaskier’s eyes up from the ground, first to Sugar, dancing frantically near the horses’ hooves, and then to Lambert.

The world came into terrible focus, much more sharply than it ever had been before. He could hear thundering heartbeats. The wind swirling down the mountain. The breath in everyone’s lungs. And a strange crackling sound just ahead of them, right where Lambert had been walking, just beyond the edge of where his feet still were.

The narrow, rock ledge they were on crumbled. Jaskier threw himself out of the saddle, freeing Roach to dance backwards, shoving Daisy back in the process. Sugar was barking frantically, a sound more piercing than it had any right to be. Jaskier ignored it, though, throwing himself to the ground and flinging out a hand to grab at Lambert as the man went down with the crumbling stone. He _just_ managed to catch his hand. The weight and momentum jerked him forward, and he flung out his other hand to catch at a bit of stone jutting up from the edge of the path. It was enough to bring them to a jarring halt, even as rock continued to crumble and fall in a deafening roar.

Lambert scrambled at the stone in front of him for a hand hold, but the stone had crumbled off to leave a sheer rock face. Jaskier’s arms and shoulders had begun to scream at the strain. At his best, he would not have been able to hold Lambert’s bulk by one hand. He would not have had a hope of holding them _both_. When he couldn’t find purchase to grip, Lambert looked up and met his eyes. Jaskier could see him taking in the situation, probably smelling the pain that was screaming from his shoulders, arms, and back, and Jaskier felt his fingers starting to open, to let go.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he gritted out. He doubled down on his grip and blinked sweat out of his eyes. “I’ll follow you, see if I don’t.”

“You can’t hold us both!”

Jaskier felt anger, a blessing after so long of shame and despair, flair in his gut, burning out the cold, nauseated feeling that had taken up residence there. _It wasn’t fair_. He had spent his whole fucking life wanting nothing more than to bring happiness and pleasure to people, rejected by his family, lovers, and everyone he had wanted to call friend. He had been tortured and maimed, lost everything precious to him, and the _one_ thing that he had found, the _one_ person who had accepted him and willingly called him friend, was about to be taken from him? **No**. Destiny could go fuck herself. The world had seen fit to torture, maim, and break him, shackled him into living with a spell that had done nothing but increase his torment. Well, it could fucking well do something to benefit him for a change! If Geralt could throw half his injuries literally onto Jaskier’s back, then he could fucking share his unnatural strength, too!

He honestly had no idea if he had been able to tap into Geralt’s mutated strength, or if it was adrenaline and pure stubbornness that did it. Either way, he clamped his grip on both Lambert and the rock until it would have taken magic to make him release either. Then he started to pull. Lambert could see and feel what he was doing and tried to help. He brought his other hand up to hold Jaskier’s wrist and braced his boots against the rock face to push up. Progress was slow and made in inches, but once Jaskier got himself high enough, he was able to swing a leg up and over the ledge, which helped immensely. Much better braced that way, Lambert just turned and climbed up his body like he was a rope. Once he was up, he hauled Jaskier up and back away from the edge in an instant, clearly afraid that without him dangling like a worm on a hook that Jaskier would just let himself go over.

Jaskier couldn’t blame him for that. He lay panting, sprawled across Lambert’s chest, both of them still just inches away from a very steep, long fall.

The world went back to normal, sort of. He could not hear any heartbeat save his own, nor any breath save his own. He felt the breeze on his sweaty face, but couldn’t hear it against the rock and dirt anymore. “That sucked,” he said.

“No fucking shit,” Lambert said back.

“Why are we on a mountain?”

“Because I’m a gods be damned idiot, that’s why. I should never have agreed to that blasted contract.”

“What contract?”

“Azuros. Look kinda like a bear, but worse.”

“Oh.” Jaskier pressed his forehead into Lambert’s chest and closed his eyes. He could smell the sweat that coated Lambert’s skin, the leather of his armor, even the dirt and rock beneath them. Behind them, he could hear the horses shifting nervously, and even the fast panting of Sugar, though the little dog seemed too frightened to approach them.

He could have cost all of them their lives. Geralt knowing what he’d gone through – experiencing it in a way – was _not_ worse than death. Certainly not Lambert’s or Roach’s or Sugar’s or Daisy’s. Him wallowing had almost killed all of them, because Lambert could not trust him left alone at camp or a village. All because he was shamed that Geralt knew details that he hadn’t before. Well, so what? So what if Geralt had seen him brought so low? Jaskier had lived through it, and so would Geralt. “I-I’m sorry,” he choked out. Tears unexpectedly welled in his eyes and spilled out, a sudden torrent that shocked him. He had not cried since Geralt had prevented him from cutting his wrists, and part of him had believed all his tears were used up. Or at least that nothing would ever feel so bad as to draw them out of him again. But knowing that he came so close to killing his friend, and the innocent animals that offered them companionship and affection, felt far worse than anything that had been done to him.

If Lambert were angry, he was at least kind enough to hold off on yelling and wrapped his arms tightly around Jaskier to hold him through the storm. Eventually, he managed to cry himself out. He felt lighter, somehow, but dread still filled him as he scrubbed his face and rolled to the side, giving Lambert room to get up. He met the man’s gaze squarely. He had pulled away, shut him out for who knew how long, made himself into nothing but a burden, and finished it all off with almost getting them all killed. The least he could do was give the man the courtesy of looking him in the face as he was told off.

Lambert did not tell him off. He stood up, straightened his clothes a bit, then reached down to pull Jaskier to his feet. And then pulled him in for a hug. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said simply. It was enough to bring fresh tears to Jaskier’s eyes. He blinked them away and returned the hug.

They couldn’t stand around on an apparently unstable mountain ledge hugging forever. They had to get the horses calmed down, reassure Sugar that all was well, and find another path. Jaskier insisted on walking rather than riding so that he could lead Roach and free Lambert to focus better on their path. When they reached stable ground again, Jaskier insisted they set up camp.

“Look. I’m not up to mountain climbing, and you need to fulfill the contract. If I had been myself, this is one that you would have had me stay behind for, just on account of the terrain, right?”

Lambert sighed and nodded. “Yes. The path wasn’t great, and I can make it up to where the thing has its den easier if I just hike and climb to it directly.”

“Alright then.” He reached out and gripped Lambert’s shoulder. “Go. I swear to you, Lambert, that I will still be here when you get back. I know you’ve reason to worry, and I’m sorry for that. It won’t happen again.”

“Jaskier, you’re hurting. You don’t get to choose your reaction to hurt.”

“Don’t I? Because I’m still hurting, Lambert, but I am _choosing_ to deal with it instead of hiding away. Which I should have done from the start. You should not have had to carry me like you have. I won’t make you do that again. It’s not fair to you, and it does nothing to benefit me. Wallowing in it didn’t make it less.”

“You’ve had even the privacy of your own mind stripped from you, Jaskier. I don’t know anyone who could handle that easily. I’m not angry.”

“I know, and I still can’t believe my luck. You’ve got the right. I promised to be your partner, and I haven’t held up my end of that.”

Lambert scowled. “You’re more than my partner, and if I had to carry you up the damned mountain on my own back, I would.”

Jaskier felt a smile stretch his lips and he pulled Lambert into a hug this time. “I know. Fuck it, I know that. I would do the same.”

“You think I don’t know that? You just literally followed me over the edge. It would have killed you, me, _and_ Geralt. Of course I know that!”

“Then trust me when I say I will be right here. I am going to eat something and try to get some sleep, and then maybe eat some more when I wake up.” He pulled back to eye his friend critically. “Make sure your potions didn’t smash. You haven’t been sleeping well for a while, have you? Don’t answer that, I can tell. Take one, I won’t be there to catch you if you fall off the mountain again!”

Lambert hesitated a few moments more, then reluctantly nodded. “Alright. I’ll be back. You take a nap.” He checked his weapons, checked his potions, took one more look at Jaskier, and started up the mountain. He ignored the winding path entirely and simply started to scale the mountain like a black clad mountain goat. Jaskier watched for a few minutes until jutting stone had him out of sight, then turned to make an actual camp. The horses were already grazing on the sparse greenery, and Sugar was leaning against his leg. There wasn’t terribly much that he could do to make the area pleasant, but he found enough sticks from the hardy trees to make himself a small campfire. He set out a couple of snares, then dug through the saddlebags to find the trail rations they generally preferred to save for emergencies. His stomach didn’t thank him much for giving it salted jerky, but a promise was a promise.

When he’d managed to choke the meat down, he laid out their bedrolls beside the fire. He was, quite naturally, exhausted. He had not slept properly for quite a while, and though he’d eaten, it certainly had not been enough. He’d lost weight, and he knew it. Part of him was still reluctant to sleep, afraid that Geralt would be pulled into his dreams again, almost as afraid to be pulled into Geralt’s. But the fear of being the cause of Lambert’s injury or death was worse, and so he laid down, let Sugar curl up as a comforting, warm weight against him, and closed his eyes.

Sleep claimed him more quickly than he thought it would. His nightmares, this time, were just that – nightmares. He dreamed less of what had been done to him, and instead dreamed of Geralt’s reaction to it – disgust, shame, anger, harsh words that questioned why he had bothered with Jaskier at all over the years. Nothing he hadn’t expected, and frankly, nothing _real_. The bond helped with that much, at least. He had been able to feel Geralt’s true reaction to the memories, and it hadn’t been condemning of Jaskier at all. It couldn’t banish his nightmares entirely, but at least when he woke from it, he didn’t spiral down into a pit of despair again, either.

He did miss Lambert, though. Waking up with his friend right next to him, usually curled around him, always made it easier.

Still, he had slept a few hours, long enough for the sun to go down. The fire had died down and he built it back up before he went to check his snares. To his surprise, he found that he’d managed to catch a couple of rather rangy rabbits. They were on the stringy side, not the plump, well fed creatures that could be found in plains and forests, but they were fresh and cooked up just fine. Sugar seemed pleased with the feast as well. He reset the snares in the hope of having more fresh meat when Lambert returned, and then laid down to rest some more.

He started to worry, just a tiny bit, when he woke up again in the morning after a fitful few hours of sleep and found that Lambert wasn’t back yet. He shoved the worry away and got up. His snares had born more fruit and needed to be emptied and reset. The fire needed to be built back up, and he had to range further from the camp to find more wood. He found a tiny stream, barely more than a trickle, but he needed to refill their water skins and the horses needed to drink. He took care of all of it, always returning to the camp as promised.

By afternoon, the worry had increased enough that he took to watching the mountain where Lambert should reappear from. He spotted an actual a mountain goat and grabbed the crossbow. It was a little tricky to get within range, but the change of meat would be nice. Hopefully the meat would be less stringy than the rabbits had been. He made the shot, and then had all the fun of climbing up to where it had fallen and hauling the thing back down again.

By evening, with the goat hitting the nicely roasted stage, he started to pace. What if Lambert had been injured in their fall? Or, worse, what if another section of mountain had crumbled under him, this time with no one their to catch him? Jaskier hadn’t _heard_ anything that sounded like an avalanche or anything, and sound echoed pretty far around mountains, but. Or what if the azuros had been tougher than he’d thought? He’d pit Lambert against any bear, any day, but it was worse than a bear. Or what if it wasn’t an azuros at all, but something even _worse?_ It wouldn’t be the first time that a contract had been for one type of creature only for the actual creature to be something else entirely. Humans were often really shitty at identifying what was killing them.

Try as he might, Jaskier could not make himself sleep. He sat on the bedrolls with Sugar curled in his lap, and kept the fire burning. Finally, somewhere around midnight, he heard a light scuff of leather on rock. Sugar heard it as well and lifted his head. His tail started wagging, which told Jaskier all he needed to know, and he jumped up and headed in the direction the sound had come from. He squinted into the darkness and could just make out Lambert’s figure trudging towards him and rushed to help. He got close and jammed himself under Lambert’s arm, taking some of his weight.

“I’m not really hurt, just tired,” he grunted. “And you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Fuck you, I got sleep. _Last night_. Tonight, I was worried about my friend hunting something like a bear but worse on a crumbly fucking mountain.” Jaskier stayed right under his arm to help him back to camp.

Lambert dropped the azuros head a few feet away from the camp and dropped heavily onto the bedrolls when they got there. Jaskier grabbed a water skin and handed it over. “Found a stream nearby – well, stream might be a bit of an exaggeration, but fresh water anyway. Drink it down,” he ordered.

Lambert obediently chugged down most of the water, then nodded at the now very well done goat over the fire. “That’s not all you found.” Jaskier cut a good sized chunk off and passed it over, speared on the end of the knife. Lambert tore into it, never one to fuss over manners. Jaskier passed over another chunk and the other water skin and remained patient while Lambert made his way through those as well. When he swallowed the last and shook his head to a third piece of meat, he gave him an expectant look. Lambert sighed. “Fucking thing wasn’t in its lair. I had to climb halfway down the other side of the mountain to find it, managed a solid strike, and it fucking ran!” He favored the head with a sour look. “Those things never fucking run. They can move fast, and climb fast, and I had a hell of a time catching back up to it.”

“And you’re definitely not hurt?”

“Definitely not,” Lambert promised.

“Alright then. I’ll go get more water and then we can turn in.” Lambert stayed neutral, but when Jaskier returned and joined him on the bedrolls, cracked a smile. “What?”

“You’re very cuddly, I believe I’ve mentioned,” Lambert said mildly. “I’ve missed it.”

Jaskier made a few half hearted grumbly noises, but he didn’t really mind being called cuddly. He had certainly been called far worse in his life, and he already knew he slept better next to the other man. He settled in, Lambert threw an arm over his chest, and Sugar curled up against his stomach, and he dropped off surprisingly quickly.


	13. Chapter 13

His dreams returned to normal, which was actually a relief. He had grown so used to them that he barely even smelled of fear or pain, at least according to Lambert.

The payment for the contract was not, in Jaskier’s opinion, sufficient for all the trouble it had caused, even independent of the crumbling mountain. But they were mountain folk, and not particularly wealthy, and Lambert did not blink at the sum. He did find that the village’s healer had died, and there was call for his skill in that area. He offered his services and chose payment in kind rather than coin, and was able to replenish a few things they were low on, including some good, sturdy leather they could keep in reserve to repair Lambert’s armor. He had been quite lax in that area as well, with the strange, detached state he’d been in.

It was a solid three weeks after their mountain adventure before Jaskier’s more normal sleep schedule resulted in another shared dream with Geralt.

Geralt realized it first, turning away from where dream Jaskier was performing at Pavetta’s feast and leaving the hall for somewhere quiet in the dream castle. They stared at a mirror on the wall.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked. “I have been worried, you were not pleased that I had seen some of your dreams.”

“I was not,” Jaskier agreed. “It is my life, those things were done to _me_ , and sharing that should be my choice entirely – I have had enough taken from me against my will.”

Their face twisted in regret. “You have had too much taken from you,” Geralt agreed. “I did not mean to take anything else. I think I’ve gotten better at knowing when you’re here, and I think I will be able to know when I’ve entered your dreams instead. I will do my best to stop it the moment I know.”

Jaskier stared back steadily. “Thank you for that. It…was not easy, knowing you had seen things I did not wish for you to see. But perhaps not as terrible of a thing as it initially felt like.”

“But you’re alright? I felt – like someone were trying to split me in two, a short time back.” Geralt spread their arms out to demonstrate.

Jaskier shrugged. “Yes, well, not entirely inaccurate. We were on a mountain path – more of a ledge, actually, and it gave way. I barely caught Lambert in time, and he’s pretty heavy. I’m pretty sure I tapped into your strength, actually, so I suppose some good came from this fucking bond.”

“Lambert?!” Geralt blinked in shock. “You’re with Lambert? That’s good,” he continued. “He rarely misses winter at Kaer Morhen, we worried.”

“He’s alright. We both are, I guess, as well as I can be.” Jaskier almost asked how Geralt had been, what he’d been doing, how Ciri was – but that was conversation between friends, and even if seeing Geralt like this didn’t hurt as badly as it had before, didn’t inspire an automatic rejection and need for distance as it had, that didn’t mean he was ready for even friendship. And he wasn’t cruel enough to give Geralt that hope when civility might be all that Jaskier could ever manage to have with him again.

“I’ll let Vesemir and Eskel know, when next I speak to them. Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier _willed_ himself awake to break the connection and woke with a start.

“Alright?” Lambert murmured, coming half awake at the movement.

“Fine – go back to sleep.” Jaskier resettled himself and closed his eyes.

He shared the details the next morning, earning a grunt from Lambert. As they mounted up to continue their trek to what promised to be a decently profitable contract, he observed, “He’s learning, at least. To recognize boundaries, and use his fucking words like a grown up.”

Jaskier barked out a short laugh. “That’s true – the grunting was never very informative, and far too open to interpretation. Perhaps he thought it made him seem mysterious and wise?”

“Maybe. Usually just made him sound constipated though.” Lambert’s teeth flashed in a mean sort of grin, and Jaskier laughed again.

The shared dreams stayed infrequent, and a couple of times he was actually able to be aware of when Geralt was in his, simply for the fact that his own remembered reactions changed, quite abruptly, from whatever screaming he’d been doing to a short, sharp, “Fuck!” before he abruptly woke up, only to be soothed back to sleep within minutes by Lambert.

As the summer moved on, as the seasons tend to do, he found himself frequently thinking about his past. Not just the terrible time spent at Pravid’s lack of mercy, but before that. His entire history with Geralt, really, and considering things in a new light. Knowing that Geralt loved him put a new slant on things. A slant similar to the one he’d had before the dragon hunt, where he’d considered Geralt a friend, but one who was unused to _having_ friends and didn’t know how it worked. From what all Geralt had told him while cooped up in that shitty little house, he’d been more right than he had known. It didn’t explain why Geralt had been panting after Yennefer so hard, though, and it didn’t explain why he had been such a complete dick on that mountain.

In spite of those questions, he was also able to consider what happened with Pravid with a little more clarity – and doubt. He worried at the thought for a few days before finally broaching the topic with Lambert.

“When Triss was healing me after Pravid’s dungeon,” he began, which startled Lambert enough that he stabbed his thumb with the needle he was using to sew a tear in his shirt. “I blamed him for all of it. All of it, as though it was his hands that had done everything to me. I…don’t think that was fair.”

“Wasn’t it?” Lambert asked mildly. “After all, he was the one that pissed the man off to begin with. And then failed to even mention in passing that he had done so. You don’t think it was his fault you were caught?”

“Maybe some, but…Geralt would not do those things, even to his worst enemy.”

“True. A clean kill at worst,” Lambert agreed.

“And it’s not like he would have had a way to know that _Pravid_ would do those things or order them done while he watched. I didn’t even hear rumors, and I’m more inclined to listen to gossip than Geralt. The only things I had heard were that he was arrogant and stingy. Granted, maybe the part where he tried to hire Geralt as an assassin might have been a clue, but – even Calanthe tried to use him like that, the night of the feast.”

“It’s actually very common. I’ve been offered incredible sums to go kill people rather than monsters. We’re good at killing, it seems to be a natural train of thought for people,” Lambert said sourly.

Jaskier scowled briefly. “Fucking bullshit,” he grumbled. Then he shook his head. “Still, that’s my point. Even if Geralt really had hated me, he would have, at worst, wanted me dead. Not what was done to me.”

“True.”

“So…it wasn’t exactly fair to lay that blame on him. He agreed at the time, but.”

“Geralt does guilt better than most folks I’ve ever known. To see someone tortured as you were, in his name, when he could have prevented it with just a few words? Yes, he would have shouldered that blame. With or without you thinking that.”

“Maybe. Probably,” Jaskier agreed reluctantly. “But even so, I don’t think it was right of me to blame him, not for all of it.”

“So how much blame is his?” Lambert set the mending aside. “What _do_ you think is his fault?”

“Not warning me.” Jaskier scowled, considering. “Refusing to let me die as I wished. The bond. It’s helped, I suppose, up on that mountain, but. And I am glad to know you, to have you in my life and as a friend. But I had a right to make that choice.” He held his hands up, displaying his crooked fingers. “Every day, every single day, it _aches_ to not have my music. Sometimes I’m still shocked by the way my voice sounds. I’ve gotten _used_ to dreaming of torture every night. No one should have to get used to that.”

“Do you still want to die?”

“…no, I suppose I don’t. Does that make it alright, though? Just because I’ve managed to claw my way to a place where I can enjoy things again, even laugh sometimes, does that make taking that choice away from me, using his own life as hostage against mine, okay?”

Lambert tilted his head thoughtfully. “No. I don’t think it does. It was selfish. There was less thought for you, for what was best for you, than about how he would miss you and forever feel guilty for the way he’d spoken to you.” Jaskier nodded agreement. “So how does that change things?”

Jaskier slumped. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if it does. I mean, he still took my choices from me. He still spent the vast majority of our time together treating me like a barely tolerated pest, a fly he just couldn’t quite be bothered to swat. I sure as fuck won’t go back to that, not now that I know what it’s like to be treated well, like I have _value_. And even if he’s gotten better about using his words and not hiding what he’s feeling – well, I suppose the bond makes it so that he really can’t, so I don’t know if that’s a choice or just that he’s not bothering to fight against that.”

“You did say how he was trying to convince you of his affection while you were at the house. Talking about your past, shared memories. That was before the soul bond.”

“True. But I just don’t know. Am I supposed to say ‘welp, you feel bad for treating me shitty and taking a lot of my choices away from me, but I guess it’s all okay because you love me so let’s hop into bed and forget the past’?”

Lambert snorted a bit. “He’d be overjoyed if you did. But it’s really up to you,” he pointed out. “It’s entirely up to you whether you forgive him or not, and if you want to see him or not, and whether you ever want to jump into bed with him or not. Granted, he gets to say no to any or all of that too, but he doesn’t get to pressure you into any of that, doesn’t get to make you feel like you have to do any of that. He’s got a lot to make up for.”

“No – because it’s not something that he _can_ make up for, and I have never wanted someone in my life that catered to me, and certainly not out of guilt. That won’t work either. If we ever do move forward, it has to be…clean.” His face screwed up. “Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with you? That would have been far easier.”

“Oh yes, very easy. Not least because I prefer women, so it would have been done before anything started.”

Jaskier threw a twig at him. “What, aren’t I pretty enough to tempt you?”

Lambert hummed. “Almost – but the chest hair is off putting, I can’t lie.” Jaskier laughed.

Summer drew to an end as he kept considering it. He was pulled into Geralt’s dreams a few times but forced himself awake without having any further conversations. He was too muddled, and until he knew what he wanted, he didn’t want to add further confusion to his thoughts. But with fall creeping ever closer, with the nights getting chillier, winter started to loom all too real on the horizon. And with it, wondering what they would do for the winter. He did not want to find somewhere to spend the winter alone, he knew that much. As pleasant as the caves were, he would not enjoy spending all that time with Roach and Sugar as his only conversationalists. They listened great, but their responses left a bit to be desired. But he also did not want to keep Lambert from spending time at the one place he considered to be a home, with the people he considered family.

The question was, could he manage to be snowed in with Geralt? He had no doubt that Geralt would be there with Ciri. It was the safest place for her, and she had years of training still to go. He would not allow himself to be caught too far from Kaedwen to make it back for winter. So could he stand to be in the same keep with him, have his mournful, guilty eyes on him, actually have a conversation with him?

The answer was a definite maybe. Maybe, if Geralt remained respectful. If he remained willing to listen and give Jaskier as much space as he might need. If he promised no more magic, no more ignoring his wishes. He could maybe make it through the winter.

He was chewing it over, not terribly happy with a definite ‘maybe’ as the answer. Lambert deserved better than that.

“You’re overthinking it,” Lambert told him.

“Overthinking what?”

“Whether to go to Kaer Morhen with me this winter.”

“Ugh, I feel like I used to be more subtle.”

“You’re not. It’s simple – we go to Kaer Morhen when you’re ready and not before. We can start heading south and winter in the caves, or head north towards the keep. If we go to the keep, Geralt can behave, and let you dictate the terms of your interactions, or I’ll find a way to make him regret it that doesn’t bounce back on you. I’ve got a few ideas on that,” he added with a faintly disturbing gleam in his eyes.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for him, but. I’m also not sure that waiting another year or however long will make a difference.”

“There’s still time enough to think it over. Either way you want, you won’t be alone.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your home – your brothers.”

“You wouldn’t be. I would be choosing to stay with my friend. Kaer Morhen will still be there, my brothers will still be there, whenever we choose to go. My choice, Jaskier, not yours.” Jaskier closed his mouth on further protests. That was one argument he could not win, and did not wish to try to when it was phrased like that.


	14. Chapter 14

The entire discussion was settled not because he made a decision, but because it was taken out of his hands. As fall closed in signaling the advent of winter, it tended to make a few animals, and more than a few monsters, more tetchy than usual as they bulked up to either hibernate or laid in the last of the food stores that were meant to see them through the frozen months. One such extra tetchy monster was the wyvern that began to harass villagers and their livestock equally. It had, until then, been content to pick off the occasional sheep, but with the nights longer and colder, it grew bolder. When Lambert got wind of the contract, it had already killed four people in a very short span of time, and was utterly unafraid of men with their farm implements, and a few swords, that tried to chase it off.

Jaskier readied the crossbow and followed Lambert out past the pastures where it had been taking its prey from. They went on foot, since neither wanted it to go for the horses, and Jaskier simply carried his medical bag slung across his chest.

They found the beast easily, in the middle of feasting on a deer. Lambert moved in right away in an attempt to keep it on the ground. It saw him coming, though, and abandoned its feast in favor of taking to the sky. It was _fast_. Much faster than the other one, and it was clearly intent on adding to the day’s meal by taking down Lambert. Almost immediately, Lambert was on the defensive, dodging its attacks and hardly able to get a swipe in in return. Lambert used the trees to his advantage, as both cover and shields, but Jaskier could tell this wouldn’t be an easy fight. For his part, hidden amongst trees and long grass, he could not get a decent shot in. Where the first had paused at the apex of its climb, this one didn’t. it stay fairly low to the ground and swooped repeatedly, trying to strike at Lambert with its tail.

After a grueling half hour, Lambert managed to connect with aard and knocked it tumbling through the air. It fetched up against a wide oak hard enough that Jaskier heard the wood crack. He brought the crossbow up as it shook itself and spread its wings to take flight again. His silver tipped bolt pierced through the wing, making it screech with pain.

And then a boy, no older than perhaps thirteen, crept out from a stand of trees. The wyvern spotted him, and must have decided he looked like easier prey. It was almost as fast on land as in the air as it darted towards him. Jaskier realized he was already running, and so was Lambert, and both of them were shouting for the boy to get back, go back into the trees where at least there was some cover to slow the wyvern down. Instead the boy, seeing the creature turn on him rather than Lambert, froze.

Jaskier barreled into the kid, momentum carrying them both back into the trees. They were close enough together that the wyvern wouldn’t fit, although its tail certainly would. Behind him, he heard Lambert bellow in pain as the wyvern again screeched its own pain. He threw the boy to the ground. “Stay there!” he ordered furiously.

Turning, he ran back out to check on Lambert. His friend was on the ground and bloodied. The wyvern was still on its feet, although there was a deep slice in its neck that bled freely. Lambert had not quite managed to cut deeply enough to kill, merely enough to slow it down. Jaskier loaded another bolt as fast as he could while Lambert knocked it back again with aard. He lifted and fired, just as it opened its mouth for another ear-piercing shriek, and managed to get the bolt _into_ its mouth, impaling the apparently softer flesh of its palette. It threw its head back, shaking it furiously.

Jaskier again realized that he was moving, running forward to where Lambert was trying to get up. Trying and failing, and just like on that mountain, the world came into a much greater focus than he should be capable of. He could hear Lambert’s heart at a faster than his normal pace, the rabbit fast pace of his own and the boy’s hearts, and the absolute thunder that was the wyvern’s. He snatched up Lambert’s silver sword and leaped forward, bringing it around in a wide, powerful arc that bit into the wound Lambert had already made. With a strength that was not his own, he finished the job of severing the creature’s head.

He immediately turned and ran back to his friend. Lambert was bleeding from his chest and both legs, where multiple claws had bitten deeply. There was also a narrow wound on his calf that looked more like a puncture than a claw mark. “No no no, gods damn it, Lambert, what the fuck happened?”

“A stupid kid,” Lambert gritted out. “Golden Oriole,” he demanded.

Jaskier was already pulling out vials and bandages. He snatched up the Golden Oriole and uncorked it, practically shoving it down Lambert’s throat. He followed it with Kiss to try to slow the too fast bleeding. It was an odd effect of witcher potions that even the ones for healing caused the dangerous toxicity that could turn their eyes and veins black. He knew from secondhand experience that it didn’t feel great, and on top of the rapid blood loss, it made Lambert pass out. Which was probably just as well, since at least he wouldn’t be trying to reassure Jaskier and wasting breath to do so.

“Oh, these are bad, fuck.” He all but tore the armor off his friend to get a better look at the wounds. The Swallow worked quickly, but the wounds were too deep even for that to reassure Jaskier. As he pulled out needle and thread, the boy crept out from the trees and approached, looking very green. Jaskier shot him a furious look. “You will run to the village as if your life depended on it,” he ordered. “Because it does. And you will have someone bring a cart here, right now, for my friend. If he dies, it’s on you!” And Jaskier might well lose it enough to kill the boy. He’d never thought he could before, but in that moment, youngling or no, Jaskier was ready to kill him for what had happened.

The boy went white. Though Jaskier had not explicitly threatened him, he had apparently picked up on the not so subtle meaning and believed him. He turned and ran towards the village, leaving Jaskier to start stitching. He literally did not have enough thread to do all that was needed, and so had to only stitch the parts that were the very deepest. It made his gorge rise to see the muscle and, in a few spots, bone, of his friend peeking out, but he swallowed it down and kept stitching. When he ran out of thread, he switched to bandages tied just as tightly as he could manage in order to staunch the rest of the bleeding.

By the time he had done all he could with what he had, he could hear the rattle of a cart approaching at a respectable pace. He stood up and went to fetch the silver sword so that when the cart reached him, he made a probably frightening sight: bicolored hair on display, hands and torso covered in blood, face furious, and a dripping sword in hand. The driver of the cart certainly looked scared half witless, but Jaskier had no time to reassure him. “Help me lift him into the cart and take us to your healer, as fast as you can,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir!” The driver jumped down to help. While Jaskier lifted his chest, the man lifted his legs. Together, they got Lambert into the cart. Jaskier clambered up with him to cushion him as best he could against the bumpy ride.

It was not a comfortable ride back, though it was about as quick as Jaskier could have expected. He knew that, in most cases, if an injury didn’t kill a witcher outright, he would recover eventually. So by that measure, Lambert should be out of danger. But he was chalk white where he wasn’t black veined, his breathing was shallower than normal, and he still had not woken up. So Jaskier would not stop fearing his loss, and lost none of the urgency in voice or action. As soon as the cart stopped in front of the healer’s house, he snapped at the driver of the cart to help him get Lambert down, then yelled towards the house to alert the healer. It probably wasn’t necessary, since there was a crowd gathered, likely from the boy having alerted everyone and their mother to what had happened.

They got Lambert into the house where the healer was, indeed, waiting with needle and thread and hot, clean water. Jaskier grabbed more thread and worked with the woman to finish sewing up what he hadn’t been able to finish in the field. They ended with washing the wounds, smearing salve to prevent infection over them, and then winding fresh, clean bandages around them all. Jaskier slumped down beside the cot Lambert laid on and just held his hand for a few minutes.

“Your friend will be well,” the healer said gently. “I have heard of witchers and their uncanny healing. Had this been a normal man, he would have already died. He still lives, and he will recover.”

“I know. But it was a very close thing. Closer than it should have been.” He lifted his head again, renewed fire running through his veins. “Watch him, if you please.” He got up, briefly laid his hand on Lambert’s forehead, then turned towards the door.

“Kashan is a good boy,” the healer said. “Just too curious for his own good. Please don’t give me another patient this day.”

Jaskier paused with his hand on the door handle. “I’ll consider it,” he allowed.

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, but that was no deterrent to the crowd waiting for news. Jaskier focused his gaze on the village alderman, the one that would be responsible for payment for services rendered. “You. What is your name again?”

“Philip, sir witcher. How is the other witcher?”

“I am no witcher,” Jaskier bit out. Probably difficult to believe, considering his odd hair and eyes, as well as the fact that he’d been the one to finish off the wyvern. “And my friend will live – barely, thanks to one of yours. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to let a boy go watch a wyvern?” he demanded.

“No one, sir. Kashan has always been curious and headstrong, and we did not even know he had left the village until he returned and said you were in need of a cart for the witcher.”

“Then he should have been taught better long ago – thanks to him, Lambert is gravely injured, and will not be able to ride for a very long time. He came very, very close to death, and would **be** dead if I were not a healer myself.” Jaskier felt his fists clenching. “ **I** could have died as well, and your boy should be thanking the gods that I was fast enough to get us to a bit of cover while Lambert was all but gutted behind us.” His eyes narrowed. “I would be within my rights to claim blood price from him.”

Several of the gathered people paled and shifted backwards. The alderman was no exception, but stepped forward again almost instantly. “You would have that right,” he acknowledged. “But I would beg you to reconsider. He is still but a child –“

“He is what, thirteen?” Philip nodded. “No mere child then, but well on his way to a man grown. Well old enough to know better, and well old enough to suffer the consequences of his actions.”

“That is true, and the village as a whole shares the guilt of not having taught him better. Please, I beg you, let the village make recompense in some way.”

Jaskier considered him, then looked past to the gathered villagers. They were clean and well fed and dressed. The houses of the village were in good repair, the animals plump and healthy. Having the boy whipped, the standard method of claiming a blood price that didn’t equal a life taken in these parts, would do no one any good, and would certainly come back to haunt Jaskier himself. That didn’t mean that the boy’s stupidity could be forgiven entirely, though. “I will take the price in goods rather than blood,” he agreed, after waiting long enough to make the man sweat. “I will have to take my friend to a place he can recover, and the journey cannot happen without a good, solid cart. I will require food and blankets to pad the cart to ease his discomfort. And since neither of our horses is a cart horse, I will require one for the journey, as well as enough grain for all three. And that’s in addition to the payment for services rendered, as we killed your wyvern – you can find the entire corpse back where we almost died because of your stupid boy.” His price was steep, as a good cart and horse were not cheap, and the blankets would probably mean reduced profits for the village since he wasn’t about to accept any old rags, but the good wool that was so plentiful and what the village relied on for trade. But they still had most of their sheep, and they could always make more.

Philip bowed low. “Of course, sir. Whatever you require, and our thanks for your leniency.”

“I want someone to bring our things from the inn. I will not be leaving my friend unattended. Someone else will have to fetch his armor – I had to remove it to save his life and did not have hands enough to bring it with.” Philip nodded agreement to that as well, and Jaskier finally grunted. “You’d best get started – as soon as he is strong enough, we will leave.”

“Right away!”

Jaskier turned and went back into the healer’s house, closing the door firmly behind him. His shoulders slumped when he was out of view, and he once again all but collapsed beside Lambert’s cot. He was still unconscious, but that by itself didn’t worry Jaskier overmuch. Lambert would need a lot of sleep, and when he woke, a lot of food, to begin to heal.

“Thank you,” the healer said quietly. “For not demanding the blood price.”

“It was a close run thing,” Jaskier acknowledged. “But I am not so far gone as to wish to see someone whipped. If Lambert had died…”

“But he didn’t, by your hands and Melitele’s grace. The strange blackness of his veins worries me, though. I know wyverns to have venom, but I have never seen the effects.”

“It is a side effect of some of the potions witchers use, nothing more. It will fade in time. He will need food, meat especially, to start to restore his strength after this.”

“Meat we have in plenty,” she assured him. A knock sounded at the door and she moved to answer it. Sugar darted past, telling Jaskier it was someone with their belongings from the inn. He lifted the little dog to rest next to Lambert, stroking his hand over the wiry fur as Sugar snuffled and whined at Lambert.

“He’ll be okay,” he whispered. “He will, don’t worry. He’s too damned stubborn to die.”

“And if he were not, you’ve willpower enough for the both of you,” the healer said, setting their packs and Lambert’s steal sword down beside him. “I will draw you a bath. It will do him no good to wake and see you covered in dried blood, and does you no good to marinate in it.” Jaskier nodded, although she didn’t seem to feel the need for his actual agreement. He got the feeling she would just dump water over his head if he declined.

While she worked in another room to get water heated for his bath, he contemplated their situation. He didn’t see much help for it – they would have to go to Kaer Morhen. A cart would just barely make it up the trail that Jaskier only half remembered. It would not make it through the forest to the caves. And anyway, as remarkable as witcher healing was, Lambert would still be weeks recovering from this. He’d be _able_ to move in a few days, but not up to anything strenuous for quite a while longer, not even riding a horse. Geralt would heal faster, he knew, but he also had more mutagens than other witchers. At least he didn’t have to worry about infection, anyway, so they could leave once Lambert actually woke up.

Jaskier very reluctantly left Lambert’s side to bathe when the tub was ready. He made it as fast as he could while still getting rid of the blood caking his skin and under his nails, and when he found some dried into the bicolored beard on his face, simply shaved it off with impatience to be rid of it. He didn’t bother with trying to clean his clothing and just chucked them into the fire – he wouldn’t want to wear them again anyway, with the way they would always remind him of how close he’d come to losing his friend.

He returned to his position beside the cot and settled in for the long haul. The healer tried to get him to sleep in a second cot, but sleep wasn’t going to happen until Lambert woke up. She seemed exasperated but at least didn’t push the issue. He waited through the night right by the cot, cleaning and polishing the silver sword until it gleamed again, occasionally petting Sugar to ease his nerves. Around dawn, the black veins finally began to fade, and a more normal pallor returned to Lambert’s cheeks, though it was still pale from blood loss. About an hour or so after sunrise, he finally stirred. Jaskier clasped his hand and leaned forward so that his face was the first thing Lambert saw when his eyes opened. “Hey. Want a pain potion?”

Lambert shook his head slightly. “Water.” Jaskier poured out a full cup from a nearby table and let him drink his fill. “Better. Did we get payment?”

“We will,” Jaskier promised, an edge in his voice. “And then some. We’ll be heading for Kaer Morhen as soon as they have what I required in place of blood price.”

Lambert’s mouth dropped open in shock. “ _Blood price?!”_

“Damned right,” Jaskier said heatedly. “That stupid child almost got us both killed, all because he wanted a look – couldn’t even wait in the trees for it be dead to get a closer look, and you got maimed and nearly died protecting him.” He turned his glare up a few notches when the protest rose up in his friend. “Are you telling me that if it were me lying there sewed together that you wouldn’t have been just as furious?”

“I’m a witcher. Getting hurt is part of that.”

“Maybe so, but you wouldn’t have been hurt this time, at least not so badly, if not for that kid. A cart and some blankets are the least of what they owe for not taking that brat in hand far earlier. Please don’t argue with me on this one, you won’t win. Now, are you ready for food or more water?”

Lambert tried to look stubborn, but he frankly didn’t have the energy to fight Jaskier on this one, on account of being held together by thread. “Both,” he grumbled.

“Alright.” Jaskier left him long enough to rustle up more water and a giant bowl of porridge from the healer. He couldn’t really sit up with so much of his abdomen shredded, and had to suffer through Jaskier spooning the food in his mouth. Once he’d eaten and drunk his fill, he fell asleep again, thankfully a more natural sleep this time around. Jaskier washed the bowl automatically, then stepped out of the healer’s house to see how long it would take the village to have what he required. He was pleasantly surprised to see a rather nice cart already parked right outside. It was long enough for Lambert’s frame, and just wide enough to accommodate not just him, but their bags and the extra grain and food he had also demanded. Philip was nearby and hurried up to him as soon as he spotted him.

“We’re just finishing gathering everything for you, sir. Collette said that meat would be preferred to aid the witcher’s healing, and we’re gathering a side of smoked beef for you. When would you like it all delivered?” he asked, handing over a pouch heavy with coin.

“As soon as you have it gathered, please. He woke and will be ready to travel whenever the cart is ready. You made a good choice of cart,” he acknowledged begrudgingly. “With padding, he should be as comfortable as could be hoped for the journey.” He checked the pouch and judged it to be exactly what the contract had offered, then slipped it inside his shirt.

“We pay our debts, and with gratitude for your leniency.” Philip bowed again, and then turned and gestured to some of the waiting men. Those men scattered. A few minutes later, people began streaming towards them, all of them bearing something for the cart. It seemed that the village really would be paying the blood price as a collective. Several brightly dyed wool blankets were placed in the cart, until a thick padding had been created. A couple bags of grain for the horses was next, and then sacks of food, including the smoked beef wrapped in waxed parchment, were added as well. They would not need to stop or hunt for food for the entire journey, unless Lambert ate even more than Jaskier estimated. The last the be brought was a medium sized cart horse. Jaskier wasn’t an expert on horses, but to his eye, she seemed to be a calm, placid adult, still sound of body, and of a good size to pull the cart. Jaskier approached her and held out a hand for her to smell and lip hopefully for a treat.

“What’s her name?”

“Rosebud,” one of the men said. “She’s stout and strong, and she’ll pull as long as you ask her to – unless you pass a rosebush in bloom. She can’t resist them, no matter the thorns.”

Reluctantly, Jaskier found himself smiling. “That sounds like some built up frustration there.”

“She’s a good horse, and I’ll miss her, though her daughters inherited her sweet nature. My _wife_ on the other hand….” The man shrugged. “She’ll be grateful to have a chance to regrow her flowers next spring and have a chance at blooms actually getting to open.”

Jaskier nodded. “Good luck to your wife’s roses, then. Let me fetch our horses to tie to the cart, and then I could use some help getting Lambert settled.”

“Of course!”

Jaskier hurried to the inn and quickly got both Roach and Daisy saddled. There wouldn’t actually be enough room for the saddles in the cart, but it wouldn’t hurt them to wear the gear while they traveled. Certainly, he expected both to be at least a little relieved not to be carting around either his or Lambert’s bulk. He got them tied to the cart loosely enough that if something happened and they spooked, they’d be able to get free, then loaded their gear into what little space remained. And then Philip helped him get Lambert, wrapped in nothing but one of the blankets and his smalls, out and settled on the pallet. The tightness of his jaw showed that the process caused him pain, but Jaskier wasn’t surprised when he didn’t ask for a potion to dull it. Tonight, possibly, if Jaskier could find a secluded spot off the road where they weren’t likely to be seen or disturbed, he might take one so he’d sleep easier. Until then, he would prefer to remain alert in case they were attacked.

Jaskier faced the alderman. There was a tiny part of him that said he’d been a little harsh with the man, and the whole village. They had truly upheld their part of the price he’d requested, and with no sign of resentment. But mostly he was just satisfied. The boy would know better in the future, and the village would not forget what happened either, and would teach their children a modicum of caution. And he had not asked more than they could comfortably give. He shook the man’s hand. “Good fortune to you and your village,” he said, quite genuinely. “And do not wait so long to seek out a witcher again, should you have need of one.”

“And if we do, we shall be quite certain to keep all our people far away from the witcher’s work.”

“Good enough!” Jaskier climbed up into the cart, settle Sugar on the seat beside him, and gently snapped the reins. Rosebud obediently started out at a walk, and they soon left the village behind.

When they were well down the road, Lambert spoke up. “Would you have really called blood price on a kid?”

“I thought about it in the moment, but no. I don’t think I could ever knowingly call for someone to be whipped. But I was very, very angry, and they should certainly have kept that little twit under close watch. They could afford to lose some objects, if it means they’ll remember not to be so stupid in the future.”

“And if it had been a poorer village?”

“I probably would have asked for a cart only, and poor Roach and Daisy would have had to get used to pulling it.”

Lambert laughed and then gasped as the movement hurt his numerous wounds. “That might almost have been worth it to see! I don’t think Roach would ever have talked to you again.”

“Probably not – and Daisy would not have been any more pleased than Roach. I’m not sure there are enough sugar cubes or apples in the world.” He flicked the reins again so that Rosebud picked the pace up a notch, though he didn’t want their speed to go over a brisk walk. It wouldn’t do the horse any good, not with the rigors of the trail in their future, and it wouldn’t do Lambert any good to make the bouncing of the cart any worse.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know - an update to this one too!

The trip, even with the cart, was not easy. For the first week, Lambert could not really move much on his own, and so whenever he had to so much as piss, Jaskier had to help wrestle him to the edge of the cart to take care of business.

Rain showed up, just to make things that little bit worse. They had a length of canvas they used as a tent for foul weather, and with a bit of effort, Jaskier was able to get it attached to the sides of the cart to keep Lambert , Sugar, and their things dry, but it left the roads sloppy and uneven, and left Jaskier a soaking mess on the cart seat. Lambert grew worried enough about his health, after three days of being constantly wet and chilly, that he threatened to get out and walk if Jaskier didn’t stop in the next village or town they came to and buy something more waterproofed than his cloak to wear, and a second set of clothes so that what he had could have a chance to dry overnight. Jaskier had learned when his friend was bluffing and so stopped in the next likely looking town.

The oil slicked cloak was pricey, but, Jaskier had to admit, worth it when he was able to stay mostly dry through the day’s ride.

At night, the temperature dropped enough that the rain turned to sleet. Autumn was well and truly underway, trumpeting winter’s arrival very loudly. Lambert had healed enough that a bit more bumping wouldn’t cause undue discomfort and insisted that Jaskier pick up the pace. He was not thrilled with the turn in weather and didn’t want to be taking the trail with a cart if the snows started early. Jaskier, who only barely recalled the trail in the first place from his hasty departure, took him at his word. If Rosebud grew too tired, then Roach and Daisy would just have to learn how to be harnessed to a cart and pull it – he wasn’t willing to be stranded just to save their pride.

A couple of days inside Kaedwen’s border, the rain stopped. But the cold stayed, and froze the muddy road into hard, uncomfortable ruts. The bouncing was miserable. The constant cold was miserable. But the alternative was Lambert trying to ride upright with guts that had barely knitted together, so he just clenched his teeth and endured, thankful every moment that at least the thick padding from the blankets cushioned his friend, even if the constant shaking meant he didn’t rest terribly well during the day.

When they finally reached the beginning of the trail up, they had to rearrange things in the back so that Lambert was reclined with his torso at enough of an angle that he could see to direct Jaskier. Jaskier couldn’t really tell what was trail and what wasn’t, so they would have been hopelessly lost very quickly if he hadn’t. Then finally, _finally_ , they rode through the gates of the keep, and Jaskier slumped with an odd mix of relief and dread.

A man came out to stare at them, older, grizzled, and very grumpy. “Vesemir,” Lambert called. “It’s been a while.”

Vesemir walked over to them as Jaskier climbed down and gave the entire setup a sort of sneering once over. “What, by all the gods, is this?”

“He was injured,” Jaskier said flatly. “Badly. Was I meant to tie him on his horse?”

Vesemir gave him an unimpressed look. “So your solution was to carry him around like a sack of grain?”

“No, a sack of grain I could have tied onto his horse. Did you want to stand there and bitch or did you want to help me get him inside and settled?” He leaned forward so Lambert could use him to brace himself as he slowly eased out of the cart. He _could_ walk, but the effort was painful as still knitting muscles in his thighs protested.

Vesemir apparently decided that helping was the better course of action and came up on Lambert’s other side. He took the bulk of Lambert’s weight without seeming strained at all so they could get him inside. When they reached the stairs that would take them up, he apparently decided that all three of them trying to get Lambert up them would be more trouble than it was worth, and just leaned down to scoop Lambert up in a bridal carry. Jaskier hurried to follow, with Sugar trotting at his heels.

The room Vesemir settled him in was much like the room (probably Geralt’s, considering the knives Jaskier had taken had been his) he had been stuck in during his previous stay. There was a large bed, a wide armchair, a wardrobe, and a chest. Jaskier pulled back the thick blankets so Vesemir could lower him in easily, and then tucked his friend in. Vesemir waved his hand vaguely towards the fireplace and lit the large stack of wood waiting there. Sugar was too short to make it into the bed on his own, so Jaskier leaned down and scooped him up to deposit him on the covers. “Keep an eye on him for me, Sugar. I have to bring our things in and take care of the horses.”

“I’m sure you remember where the stables are,” Vesemir snipped.

Jaskier gave him a steady look. “I remember a very great deal from the time I was stuck here,” he agreed. “Don’t trouble over me – in fact, you should take a seat, grandfather. I’m sure you’re tired after your exertions.”

Lambert sighed and closed his eyes. “Fucking wyverns and stupid kids,” he muttered. “The caves might have been a better choice.”

Jaskier shook himself and turned away from the angry old man. “Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly. “I’m sure we’ll all figure out a way to ignore each other. Just relax – have him check your injuries. He should at least be good for that, right?” Lambert gave him a look that spoke volumes, but Jaskier just patted his shoulder and turned to go.

The horses were happy enough to get into a nice warm stable, with plenty of fresh hay and water. Jaskier took his time brushing them all down and murmuring approving words. They had all been just grand, even Rosebud, who had pulled them so far with no complaints. He rolled the cart into an unused corner of the stables and then started unloading it. They had gone through most of the food, which helped, but their collection of blankets had grown, and under the weight of all their things plus Lambert’s swords, he rather felt that he owed Rosebud more than a bit of fresh hay.

When he got back to Lambert’s room, it was to see Vesemir pulling the blankets back up over his chest. The old man shot him a grudgingly approving look. “You did well enough with these,” he allowed gruffly. “There’s a salve that works better at knitting the muscles of witchers – if you mean to keep traveling with him, I’ll show you how to make it. Fool never did bother to carry any with him. It works best if it’s applied with the stitches, but it will still offer benefit now.”

“Thank you, I would appreciate that,” Jaskier said evenly. He set everything down and propped the swords near the bed.

“I’ll bring up what I have on hand. Geralt,” he added pointedly, “is out hunting. He should be back in a few hours. I’ll send him up when he gets here.”

“I wouldn’t,” Lambert said, low and lethal. “I would have no problems with ripping myself back open just for the pleasure of punching him.”

Vesemir blinked in an expression of honest shock. “You can’t think to hide from him.”

“Hide, no. That does not mean we need to share space or company. He’ll know we’re here as soon as he returns, but that does not mean either of us is inclined to speak with him. He can stay fucked off until we say otherwise.”

“I see.” Vesemir gave Jaskier another long, searching look. Jaskier wasn’t sure what he was seeing, or smelling, but whatever he picked up from them, he apparently decided to hold his tongue for the moment. “Very well. I’ll bring the salve and show your…partner where the kitchen is. Geralt won’t barge in without invitation, but you can’t expect a guarantee that neither of you will run into him in the keep.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Neither of us is unreasonable enough to expect him to hide away to avoid us. Just leave us alone.”

“Alright.” Vesemir nodded and turned to leave.

When the door shut behind him, Jaskier finally relaxed enough to start pulling off the heavy cloak. “This is going to be a long winter.”

“Moderately long, yes.”

“On another note, why the fuck don’t you carry this muscle salve? It’s the first I’m hearing of it! What the fuck, Lambert? I could have been applying it all along!”

Lambert looked faintly uncomfortable. “It takes forever to make – five days of almost constant attention. It’s rare that I get hurt badly enough to need it.”

Jaskier gave him a flinty look as he started pulling apart their packs, sorting out dirty clothes and the various odds and ends that had gotten either dirty or damaged or were just unneeded and hadn’t been thrown away yet. “We had _all winter_ to make it last year. Are there any _other_ healing or battle potions you haven’t bothered with, just because it’s rare that you need them?”

“…..a couple,” Lambert mumbled. Jaskier put his hands on his hips. “Fuck, Jask, I’ve been walking the Path for decades and haven’t needed them yet, so-“

“Do not finish that!” There was more urgency than humor in Jaskier’s voice as he flung out a hand to stop Lambert’s words. “I have seen Destiny taunted and hit back far too many times, Lambert. Do not finish that. Before we leave, you will have the full complement of potions, and I will damn well know how to make them.”

“Don’t forget to restock yours, too.”

“Deal.” Jaskier finished up clearing out the packs and then eyed the various piles. “Alright, my previous stay here wasn’t exactly great. So please tell me there’s somewhere I can wash all of this.”

Lambert flashed a grin. “So, remember the hot spring in the caves?” Jaskier nodded. “Beneath the keep are half a dozen hot springs – all quite large, and wonderfully hot. And they were all spelled ages ago to stay clean.” He looked down at himself. “And which I won’t be able to avail myself of for a while, so consider my lack of muscle healer salve properly punished.”

“I’ll find the biggest bucket I can carry and bring it up,” Jaskier promised. “Not as good as a good long soak, but at least you won’t smell like weeks on the road.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” He looked towards the door. “Come in,” he called.

Vesemir entered with a small pot in his hands. “I have the salve. Jaskier, this should be safe enough for you to apply, should you ever need to, but you’ll want to wash your hands right after.” He gestured at Lambert to push down the blankets as he unscrewed the top. Jaskier leaned over to see, and caught a whiff of…

“Almonds?” he questioned.

Vesemir’s eyebrow went up. “One of the ingredients, yes. The rest are less appetizing, however.” He offered the jar to Lambert, who took a fingertip full and began to spread it over the healing wounds on his chest and abdomen. Vesemir took his own fingertip full to spread on the injuries on his legs. Even those small amounts seemed to go very far, as neither man needed extra to get all the injuries covered. Vesemir wiped his finger on a rag, let Lambert also clean his finger, and grunted. “Right. Leave that to soak in a while before you cover up or wash. Jaskier, there should be clean clothes in Lambert’s wardrobe you can borrow until your own have been cleaned. Did he tell you about the hot springs?”

“Under the keep, yeah.”

“There’s soap kept down there.” He eyed the rather large pile of laundry on the floor, both clothing and the wool blankets that, to a witcher, probably reeked of weeks of Lambert’s pain sweat. Even Jaskier thought they were a bit whiffy. “Drying racks off the kitchen. The bathing chamber stays too humid for anything to dry properly down there.”

“Thank you, I’ll find everything.”

“The princess is in the library. I haven’t mentioned that you’re both here yet, but she is endlessly curious and may want to stop in to meet you both, and talk.”

Jaskier’s lips thinned. He had nothing against the girl, but he wasn’t sure he wanted her endless chatter again, either. “And the witches?”

“Are expected any day for the winter. Ciri needs a great deal of teaching to control her powers.” With a short nod, Vesemir left.

Jaskier blew out a breath. “Well, this should be fun.”

“Try not to worry,” Lambert advised. “I should actually be up and about in just a few days, now.” He gestured at the raw, red wounds that weren’t even quite scars yet, glistening with the salve. Jaskier glared at him. “We won’t leave without our own salve! I promise! But seriously, Jask. Very soon, I’ll be back on my feet, and I won’t let them harass you – and neither, I wager, will Geralt.”

Jaskier didn’t think it would be that easy, actually, not knowing the people involved. But the sentiment was appreciated. He opened the wardrobe and snagged some of the clean if slightly musty clothing inside. He would swim in it, not having Lambert’s bulk, but at least he wouldn’t stink. Then he bent down to hoist the large bundle of laundry in his arms. “How do I get to the springs? I’m pretty sure Vesemir just told me I stink.” 

“Everyone washes when they first get back. We try not to bring the stink of the road into the keep with us,” Lambert explained. He gave directions through the keep to both the springs and the kitchen, and waved Jaskier off when asked if he needed anything first.

Laundry was about the same the world over, but Jaskier had to admit, having a hot spring made the chore slightly less onerous. He took care of the clothes first, since that was the more pressing need, and finished by washing the blankets. True to Lambert’s word, the water seemed to continuously cycle clean so that soap residue didn’t linger. The resultant pile of sopping cloth was _heavy_ , and he had to make two trips up to the drying room off the kitchen – in back of it, actually, so that the heat from the enormous fire that burned in the kitchen kept the drying room toasty and dry – in order to get everything hung up. He found a large pail in the kitchen itself and took it back down to the springs. After a fast, thorough wash himself, along with changing into the dry clothes and washing the ones he’d been wearing, he filled the bucket and lugged it up to their room.

He helped Lambert climb out to sit on the chest so they wouldn’t soak the bed, and then helped the man wash. Lambert was much more relaxed after he’d gotten clean and climbed back under the blankets with heavy lidded eyes. “Lay down and get some sleep, Jaskier. You’ve been pushing yourself hard the whole trip,” he ordered. “The bucket will wait.”

Jaskier didn’t need much encouragement. The trip and all the chores were starting to weigh on him, and the bed looked very inviting. He kicked off his boots and climbed in. They couldn’t sleep in their usual positions, but after weeks of sleeping on the ground next to the cart, it was a relief to be in touching distance at all. Sugar turned several dizzying circles as he tried to decide where to sleep, finally settling on the pillows between his humans’ heads. Jaskier tucked one of his legs under Lambert’s and closed his eyes.

Sometime later, a sudden bombardment of pure emotion made him sit bolt upright. Shock/joy/lovelovelove/shame/regret/sadness shot through him and he could only gasp and clutch at the hand Lambert gripped his shoulder with. The intense emotional storm cut off and he flopped back down. “I think Geralt just got back.”

“What happened?” Jaskier explained the bizarre emotional intrusion. “Huh. Either proximity or a new phase of the bond. That could get…overwhelming.”

“I hope not. It cut off, so maybe…I dunno. Maybe he figured out what was happening and got it under control. The meditation helped with the dreams, and he’s gotten good at putting a stop to them pretty quick.”

“Maybe just because you were asleep. You might be more open then.” Jaskier made a face, but it made sense. Who wasn’t at least a little more open when they slept? Lambert tugged him a little closer and hitched the blankets back up. “Tomorrow’s problem,” he said firmly. “Sleep, Jask.” Sugar licked his ear as though to emphasize the command. He shifted a little, partly on his side so that his nose was tucked just that much closer to Lambert. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep with that burst of complicated emotions so clear in his mind, something to chew over and wonder at, but he did. The weeks on the road in miserable weather and barely sleeping had taken their toll, and with Lambert relaxed next to him, it was almost a conditioned response to fall asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a head's up: things are getting tense, and Vesemir didn't behave very well in this one. From what i've read of him (since he hasn't been introduced in the series yet) I'm kind of on the fence with his character. Like yeah, he's a mentor and all, but who takes a strap to a pair of boys just playing? And this Jaskier is not a forgiving man anymore.

When he woke again the next morning, Sugar was whining and dancing impatiently at the edge of the bed, and all three of their stomachs were growling. He checked Lambert’s wounds first thing, but they were noticeably more healed than they’d been yesterday, so there was little worry there. He pulled on his boots and cloak and carried the little dog outside to piss. When he was finished, they both headed towards the kitchen, where Sugar proceeded to hide behind his legs when they encountered Vesemir chopping vegetables into a huge stewpot. Jaskier nodded politely to the older witcher and then foraged for food, piling a plate high with bacon and bread and cheese, enough for all three of them.

He didn’t see hide nor hair of either Geralt or the little princess the entire time. Convenient, certainly, and he hoped that would continue indefinitely, as uncharitable as that might make him. It meant that they were all three able to eat in peace, and Jaskier was able to fetch Lambert’s carving supplies to keep him occupied while he took care of chores, and it was all as routine as it could possibly be considering where they were. Vesemir stopped by late in the afternoon with the muscle salve and another plate of food. He seemed a little bemused by the carving taking shape in Lambert’s hands, and almost disdainful of the rabbit fur slippers they both wore against the chill of the stone, but he treated Lambert again without comment. “Another day, and I want you to start stretching,” he ordered as he put the cap back on the jar. He glanced at Jaskier. “When he’s back on his feet, I’ll teach you to make the salve.”

“Sounds fair. I assume the keep has a proper stillroom? We’re low on a number of potions in general.”

Vesemir’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You brew them? Regularly?”

“Most of them, yes. I’ve been studying healing in our travels. I had a basic knowledge when we met and it seemed prudent to learn more as we traveled.” Vesemir seemed extremely suspicious over that and glared at Lambert.

Lambert was unperturbed. “Fuck off with that, Vesemir. I can and do trust Jaskier with my life – and he’s proven himself to me a hundred times over. If you’re going to be an ass, we’ll find somewhere else to winter.”

Vesemir snorted. “You won’t make it back down the trail before the snows hit and you know it.”

“Try me,” Lambert shot back.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jaskier sighed. He stabbed a finger at Lambert. “You’re staying put until you’re healed. I didn’t haul your heavy ass all the way here just to have you undo all my hard work trying to navigate what you all so generously call a trail trying to leave again. And you!” His finger turned on Vesemir. “I traveled on and off with Geralt for two decades, and never once attempted to sabotage him or his potions. And I have been traveling as Lambert’s partner for over a year now, every potion he’s taken in the last three months have been ones I either made or at least helped with. He is my friend and my partner, so why you think I would do anything to hurt him I can’t fathom. Do you honestly think that if that were my intent that I would have dragged his fat ass all the way back here to finish healing somewhere safe and comfortable? _And_ subjected myself to Geralt and his witches on top of it? Tell me, do witchers often suffer from senility? Because I’m pretty sure **you** are.”

“My ass is _not_ fat!” Lambert protested.

Jaskier turned the finger back on him. “You didn’t have to haul it around – it most definitely _is_ fat!”

“Is this little byplay meant to make me trust you? From what I can tell, you have caused nothing but trouble for my boys,” Vesemir said quietly. “Geralt has been…upset, since your capture and subsequent horse theft. And you bring Lambert to me more injured than he has ever been before, and angry with his brother on top of it. What am I mean to think?”

“I don’t care if you trust me or not,” Jaskier said flatly. Once, that would not have been true. Once, he would have fallen all over himself to earn the trust of someone that he could guess was very important to Geralt. But that was the Jaskier of long ago, and these days, he truly couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit. “I am Lambert’s friend and partner. From what I have gathered about witchers over the years, neither relationship is one you would encourage for them. Witchers walk alone, isn’t that right? A lonely, hard path, with nothing and no one except when they return here for the winter, and then back out there to eventually grow older, slower, and finally die a violent end battling some monster for too little coin and no other reward or comfort,” he said flatly. “What a blessed existence you would have them lead.” Vesemir looked as though he had been slapped.

“Happiness is a child’s fantasy. What I have taught them keeps them safe and alive,” Vesemir managed to shoot back after a few moments.

Somewhere deep, a kernel of pity bloomed for the old man. Jaskier shook his head. “There is a difference between existing and living, and all you have offered them is a way to keep existing. I’m sorry you don’t know the difference.”

“Humans betray us – you would have them be hurt, over and over again, trusting them.”

“Maybe. And maybe if they were more willing to take a chance, neither Geralt nor I would be the broken things we are now. Maybe the love we have for each other could have grown naturally, brought us the joy that such love is meant to. And maybe Lambert and I would have been friends for much longer. Maybe a lot of things would have been different, if only they had been told to be careful but willing to take a chance sometimes, rather than encouraged to keep their distance and let the bullshit rumors of the unfeeling witcher fly free. We can’t know. What I **do** know is that you don’t get to come in here and start trouble, start trying to separate me from Lambert. The only people that get to decide whether we stay friends are the two of us, _not you_.”

“I have always done my best for them. And I don’t think you’re what’s best for either.”

Jaskier shrugged. “You might be right. But again, not your decision to make.”

“I don’t have to allow you to stay in the keep,” Vesemir threatened. “The sorceresses will be here soon. I’m certain they would be happy to portal you away.”

“I’m certain they would. And Yennefer in particular would not be careful how or where I landed. But I would only find Lambert again in the spring.”

“If you survived.”

Lambert let out a bark of laughter at that, though it wasn’t particularly joyful. “He dies and Geralt dies,” he said. “Jaskier was able to confirm that much about the bond. Leave off, Vesemir. Trust him or don’t, approve or don’t. It won’t change things. Where Jaskier goes, I go. I don’t know what you hope to gain with all this, but all it’s doing is pissing me the fuck off.”

“I’m not going to put up with him disrupting the keep all winter playing his games with you two!” Vesemir waved a hand at Lambert and the bed. “You both know perfectly well that Geralt has lost his mind over the boy and right away, he’s sleeping in your bed. How do you think Geralt will react to that, huh? And I don’t like that he’s apparently managed to turn you against your brother.”

“No, Geralt did that all on his own. Get the fuck out. This conversation is done.”

“I agree,” Geralt said, making all three of them start and turn towards the door. It was obvious to Jaskier that neither Lambert nor Vesemir had heard Geralt approach or open the door, and only a witcher could creep up on another witcher. He stood there, legs braced and arms crossed, glaring at the older man. He wore the expected black pants and boots and had forgone the leather armor in favor of a plane black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Jaskier could see new scars on one arm, where fainter twins marred his own skin from the bite of whatever he had fought while Jaskier had shared the effects of his potions. He looked tired and angry, and there was a wealth of apology in his eyes when he looked at Jaskier. Jaskier didn’t even know what Geralt was picking up from him in return, as he didn’t know himself what he was feeling, seeing him standing there. He bowed his head briefly to them. “I apologize, Jaskier, Lambert, for intruding, but none of you were keeping your voices down.” His gaze narrowed on Vesemir. “We have spoken about this, Vesemir. I have earned Jaskier’s anger all on my own. He is entitled to his feelings, and he has the absolute right to have as much or as little to do with me as he pleases. The same goes for Lambert. I do not need or want you attempting to defend me or my feelings. Jaskier is not the one disrupting the keep – you are! I do not need your interference to spare my delicate feelings and getting both of them pissed at you is only going to make the winter all the more challenging for all of us. Leave off, Vesemir.”

“I have a right to say who sleeps under my roof,” Vesemir growled.

“Our roof!” Lambert snapped. “You are not the only wolf witcher left, Vesemir. We all have equal rights to its walls and defenses and shelter. There are no kings here.”

“I am the last of the Elders!”

“Of an all but dead school,” Lambert said flatly. “There are but a handful of us left. Do you truly want to splinter what’s left of us further?”

“Not so dead as all that,” Vesemir growled.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“He’s been talking with Triss,” Geralt explained. Jaskier didn’t like the look in his eyes. “We lack the mages to make more witchers but…she may be agreeable to attaching herself to the school and administering the Trials.”

Lambert caught his breath. Jaskier turned to him and liked the look in his eyes even less than the look in Geralt’s. “If she agrees, and you revive the Trials…I’m out,” he said flatly. “You may as well put up with Jaskier for the winter, because it will be the last one we spend here if you do that.”

“I have an obligation to revive the school, if I can. To keep us from dying out.” Vesemir suddenly shook his head. “That’s not the point of this conversation. You’re blind, boy, to what he is doing to you, to your brother. And a fool if you think he won’t cause chaos.”

Geralt let out one of his impatient, annoyed grunts and crossed the room to the old man. He gripped his arm, and Jaskier could tell it was at least bordering on painful. “Enough. Just _stop_ , Vesemir. The only one causing issues is you. I am nothing but grateful to Jaskier for saving Lambert’s life, and for bringing him all the way back here to heal and recover. And I am nothing but grateful to Lambert for being the kind of friend that I never let myself be to Jaskier. They are here. They are staying. I’m certain the pair of them can get on just fine without any of our assistance.” His grip tightened and he turned to drag the old man out. For a few seconds, it looked like Vesemir would resist, but after one last look at Lambert, he relented and let Geralt remove him from the room.

Jaskier immediately climbed back onto the bed. “What can I do?”

Lambert stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so hard Jaskier worried he might shatter his teeth. “Nothing,” he finally ground out. “Just – nothing. Quiet, maybe. And stay away from him, he’s not going to let this go.”

“Okay.” He squeezed his shoulder and then stood up. “I’ll go to the library and find a book or something, come right back.” Lambert nodded. His fists were clenching over and over, and Jaskier couldn’t remember ever seeing him so angry before. He didn’t understand why the idea of reviving the school had triggered him so badly, but it was clear there was _something_ about the notion, just the possibility, that Lambert found unforgivable. It didn’t seem like a good time to discuss it, however, particularly with Lambert in no condition to go out and burn off the angry energy with something violent but productive. In a few more days, when the salve and witcher healing had finished repairing the extensive damage, would be a far better time, should Lambert be so inclined.

He found the library by virtue of exploring and avoiding the lower levels where even his unenhanced hearing could just make out shouting. He also found the princess. She was, obviously, older and bigger than the last time he’d seen her. She was much closer to a young woman than a child, but still apparently kind, as she gave him a happy enough smile when she spotted him.

“It’s good to see you again, Jaskier! Are you well? We were worried when you left.”

Jaskier hesitated, but he wasn’t quite enough of an ass to shut her down. And had healed enough, apparently, that talking with her didn’t seem an insurmountable chore. “Well as can be expected, princess. Yourself? Your studies going well?”

“Fairly well.” She gestured at the large tome in front of her. “Studying monsters. There’s so very many of them.”

“So there are.” He moved further into the room and began to study the volumes on the shelves. There were an awful lot of bestiaries, and he had to wonder if the world could really contain so very many monsters. He considered his time traveling with witchers and then wondered if there were enough volumes to truly hold them all.

Monsters weren’t terribly high on his list of interests at the moment, however, and he moved further along. He found several tomes on healing that seemed to be geared for witchers rather than humans and started to load his arms. Further on, he found journals and his eyes widened. Ciri had turned her attention to her books, older and wise enough to know (or perhaps having been warned) that he wasn’t much for conversation these days. He wasn’t at all sure it was wise, and had an extremely strong feeling that Vesemir, at least, would strongly object to him reading them. But something about the idea of making more wolf witchers had enraged Lambert, and even Geralt hadn’t seemed keen on it, and he doubted that Lambert would be up to explaining just way. Not anytime soon, at least. He grabbed a few of the journals at random and hid them amongst the other books.

Lambert had abandoned his carving and was just laying in bed and glaring at the ceiling, plainly seething. Jaskier lit a few more candles beside the bed and climbed in, hauling one of the heavier healing tomes with. He settled pressed up against Lambert and started to read. After a couple hours, Lambert calmed enough to take his carving back up, but a quick glance showed that his jaw was still clenched with anger, and so Jaskier didn’t attempt to press him on the issue.

Eventually Jaskier’s stomach rumbled, reminding them both that they had not eaten the food Vesemir had brought with him. Nothing seemed to have gone off, so Jaskier put the plate as close to the fire as he could get it so it would warm. Lambert ate grudgingly when he brought it over, just enough to satisfy the edge his body’s needs. Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He had never seen his friend in such a state before, and he didn’t know what would relieve it. A distraction might be nice, but there were precious few distractions that could be had while Lambert was still laid up.

He cleared the plate away once it was empty and returned to the bed, stroking gently down Sugar’s back as the little dog licked the last of food smell from Lambert’s fingers. “How are your injuries?” he tried.

“Healing,” Lambert said shortly. “I’ll be mobile tomorrow.”

“Down for a nice long soak, then.” He touched Lambert’s hand. “A few more days and maybe we can go hunting? We’ll find more wood for your carving, and I can start a new batch of skins to sell in the spring.”

“I don’t want you trying to hunt on your own. The mountain is littered with monsters; it’s not safe.”

“Alright. It can wait until you’re up to it.” Jaskier settled against him again and lifted the book.

“How willing do you think that witch really is to attach herself here and help restart the school?”

“I don’t know. She was attached to King Foltest, but she also seems to quite like Geralt. She came when he called, and she did nothing to stop Yennefer from casting the binding spell. In my admittedly limited experience, mages seem incapable of resisting the impulse to do something just to prove they _can_. If there’s no danger to her life involved in the Trials, I can’t see that she’d refuse.” He paused and glanced over. “Will you tell me why you hate the idea?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay.” Jaskier went back to reading. Eventually, Lambert picked his carving back up, but Jaskier could tell his attention wasn’t really on it. After a while, Jaskier closed the book and lifted Sugar down off the bed. He carried the dirty plate down to the kitchen and selfishly left it for someone else to deal with while he took the dog outside to relieve himself.

The yelling, at least, had stopped. He didn’t see any of the other occupants and made it back to their room without incident.

For once, it wasn’t his nightmares that woke them during the night – it was Lambert’s. Lambert wasn’t prone to screaming or thrashing. He went stiff, absolutely rigid where Jaskier was pressed to his side, and there was a low, barely there whimper trapped behind his teeth. Sugar’s distressed whine was louder. Jaskier sat up and studied his friend in the dim light offered from the low burning fire. He knew that he himself had thrashed upon being woken from the some of the worst of his nightmares, and a thrashing witcher could be dangerous. But he wouldn’t allow his friend to remain trapped in a nightmare any more than Lambert abandoned him to his own when they were that bad.

He picked up Lambert’s closest hand, where it was clenched into a fist, and firmly stroked the taught tendons. “Lambert, wake up! I need you to wake up, please,” he said, voice urgent, insistent, but not yelling or frantic. It took a few repetitions before Lambert came awake all at once, bolting upright in the bed, fists cocked and ready to fly.

Jaskier was a little surprised that there was no dagger in them and thanked the gods that there were apparently none hidden beneath his friend’s pillow.

“Hey, easy. It’s just me, Lambert.”

“Fuck,” Lambert said succinctly.

Jaskier shifted around until he was behind Lambert, legs bracketing him and arms around his chest. He leaned back so that Lambert was draped over his chest, encasing the man as best he could without putting pressure on his healing injuries. Lambert allowed it, let himself lay back against Jaskier’s chest, folded his arms over Jaskier’s and twined their fingers together in a grip hard enough to hurt. Jaskier didn’t make a peep, of course. It wasn’t hard enough to break bones and so he would bear it and return the grip as tightly as he could manage.

Gradually, the tightness that gripped his friend’s entire body seeped out of him, until he lay limp and yielding against Jaskier. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. How’s your leg and stomach? Up to walking?”

“Probably.”

“Want a soak?”

“Fuck yes.” Lambert threw back the blankets and swung his legs over the side. Jaskier scrambled out ahead of him and held his arms out to brace him if he needed it. Lambert swayed a little as he gained his feet, and there was a hint of a grimace on his face as newly knit muscles were used properly for the first time, but he didn’t fall.

Jaskier gathered up fresh clothing for both of them in one arm and walked with the other looped loosely around Lambert’s waist in case he faltered as they made their way down through the keep. Sugar’s nails clicked quietly against the stone as he trotted with them, a cheerful patter in the otherwise silent night. He had to help steady his friend as he climbed into one of the large springs, but once he was there, most of the tension seemed to seep out of him. Jaskier climbed in beside him. Lambert still did not seem inclined towards speech, and Jaskier was okay with that. His nightmares were his own, and Jaskier did not want to take that which wasn’t offered. It was undoubtedly related to Vesemir’s plan to restart the school, and he was confident enough in his research skills that he knew he would figure out _why_ that so angered his friend and Geralt.

Healed enough to walk, Lambert refused to stay abed any longer than he already had. After their long, luxurious soak, they caught a few more hours of sleep, and then Lambert was up and doing. He didn’t push himself, but he kept himself busy, tending the horses, helping with food prep, maintaining the fires around the keep. Jaskier pitched in right alongside him, partly from habit, and partly to keep an eye on him. Witcher senses being what they were, everyone was nicely able to avoid each other. After another week, Lambert pronounced himself fully healed and vanished into the mountain to hunt. Kaer Morhen was almost entirely self-sufficient, so there was already a place to work leather. Lambert returned with two good sized deer that Jaskier helped him skin. He took the hides to start processing while Lambert hung the carcasses to smoke.

Eskel arrived to the keep two days into the start of their second week there. Lambert was actually somewhat eager for Jaskier to meet him, and from what little he and Geralt had said, Jaskier had gathered that this was easily the most affable of the wolf witchers. Whatever he knew of the complicated history that Jaskier had with everyone he kept behind his teeth, offering nothing more than a warm greeting and easy smile. Jaskier saw his eyes flicker very briefly over his face and hair, taking in scars and odd coloring and dismissing it. He had straight dark hair and a scar that cut down across his face that outshone Jaskier’s for severity, but his amber eyes were kind enough. He lit up at the sight of Sugar hiding behind Jaskier’s legs and dropped instantly to the floor to offer a bit of dried meet from his satchel. Sugar crept out of hiding, crouched low to the ground, to accept the treat. Eskel rubbed the little dog’s ears, and Sugar was instantly in love – he flopped over on his side, offering his belly, tail wagging madly as Eskel obligingly rubbed.

Jaskier looked on, nonplussed. “You seduced my dog. Less than five minutes, you seduced my dog.” He shook his head and mock glared at his dog. “Hussy,” he accused without heat.

“I like animals,” Eskel offered. “They usually don’t care for witchers, though. Something about our smell upsets them, cats and dogs especially. How did you get this little guy so comfortable with witchers?”

Jaskier shrugged. “The man I took him from treated him very badly. He didn’t seem at all bothered by Lambert’s smell as long as we weren’t beating him.” Eskel winced.

“Took him,” Lambert snorted. “Punched the bastard hard enough he lost a tooth. Looked ready to gut him where he stood if he didn’t let the little guy go.”

“He had it coming,” Jaskier muttered.

Eskel’s fingers rubbed over a couple of the scars. “So it would seem.” He stood up and hoisted his satchel. “I’m off for a bath. Glad you could both make it for the winter.”

Lambert fell into step beside him and Jaskier left them to it. His partner would no doubt get Eskel caught up on everything so the man would understand the tensions running through the keep. Depending on how the man took everything, they would either have one more person to talk with through the winter or one more person to avoid. Jaskier, for his friend’s sake, hoped Eskel took everything well.

The witches arrived that evening. Jaskier stood at the back of the main hall watching, Lambert at his back, as the princess flew down the stairs and into Yennefer’s arms. Geralt appeared from somewhere else to greet them as well, though with far more restraint than Cirilla. Eskel popped up at Jaskier’s back to watch the reunions happening as the princess swapped arms to hug Triss as well.

“This is going to be an interesting winter,” Eskel murmured.

“Fucking long, you mean,” Lambert grunted.

The witches seemed to sense their presence and turned to look, almost in unison. Surprised flitted over their faces at the sight of Jaskier there, and Triss raised a hand as though seeing old friends. Jaskier turned his back to them. “I have hide to stretch. Supper in our rooms when I’m done?” he asked, mostly of Lambert but offering for Eskel as well, if the man wished.

“I’ll bring it up,” Lambert confirmed.

Neither mage attempted to follow them that night.

Jaskier had found the stillroom, and in between working on the leather and other daily chores, had begun to replenish their potions. He preferred to work on them in the morning while Lambert sparred or hunted. Unpleasantly, Triss made her way there the morning after their arrival.

“It’s good to see you, Jaskier,” she offered pleasantly when she walked in.

“The feeling is not mutual,” he said bluntly, not taking his eyes off the decoction in front of him.

“Ah. I had hoped that time would help to heal your spirit, but it seems that is not the case. I was able to find out more about the bond you share with Geralt, if you’d care to hear.”

“I did my own research, I have no need of yours. And my spirit is not your concern.”

“I am a healer, Jaskier. Of course I am concerned.”

“You are a mage, as arrogant and presumptuous as any other, you just cloak yourself in a different perfume.” When the time hit, Jaskier took the decoction off the flame and set it aside to cool. He turned his gaze on the woman then. “You are no friend to me, we are not really allies. Apparently we will both be staying here over the winter, but do not make the mistake of thinking we will be at all friendly. I have not, and do not anticipate, ever forgiving you for what you did to me. Now, if you have work to do here, there is plenty of space.” He gestured at the rather expansive room and the multiple, if dusty, workspaces. “I will not interfere with you, and you can leave me alone and not interfere with me.”

“I do have work,” she allowed. “I also know that many of the witcher potions require a touch of magic to brew correctly – I can assist you with those, if you mean to brew them.”

“I won’t need your help. Lambert will help with them as needed.”

“I see.” She gazed at him steadily. “Very well. Some few of the things I need to brew are best done without humans present, as the fumes are dangerous. I will let you know when it comes time and we will work out a schedule for use of the room.”

“Fine. Now, I have work to do.” He turned back to the job at hand and began pouring the decoction into small, single dose vials. He heard her walk away and resolved to ignore her as best he could when she inevitably returned.


End file.
